


The Sky Is No Man's Land

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Captivity, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracking down the head of a human trafficking ring is dirty work. When Illya of all people manages to get himself a secret admirer, there is at least something to enjoy on this mission. The little gifts and messages are hilarious, really. Until they’re not. </p><p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long live the kinkmeme!  
> [Original prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=769408#cmt769408)  
> The title is taken from Ben Howard's song Black Flies.
> 
> Now betaed by the wonderful Ursa_Es, still all mistakes left are mine. 
> 
> Translations and additional/specific warnings will be in the notes at the end of each chapter.

They are really hard to miss. The diner is always crowded at this time of the day and they chose a table on the other side of the room, but still he noticed them, just a little later than he would have preferred. 

One man, his dark hair slicked perfectly in place and in an almost too well fitting suit, a woman in a vibrant orange dress with large sunglasses in her hair despite the fact that it’s December and another man, blond, dressed casual but so tall he towers visibly over his companions even sitting. He’s got a rather large scar on his temple, but while it catches the eye it doesn’t disturb it. He’s glad he brought a newspaper to hide behind, but they seem too occupied with themselves to notice him anyway. Even though he can’t hear their conversation, they are still the most interesting little things he’s seen in a long time. A too long time. 

It’s mesmerizing to see them together, a raven, a falcon and a paradise bird sharing a branch surrounded by plain sparrows. They sit around one of the smaller round tables, almost arranged just for him. The dark haired man and the woman in their profile, the tall one sitting between them, facing his way. The remaining chair points in his direction like an open invitation. It’s tempting, but he stays where he is. He is content with watching. For now.

Something the Raven said earns him a glare from the man beside him, which causes the woman to laugh. The two men exchange a few sentences before Raven raises an eyebrow suggestively at his companion. For a moment the eyes of the Falcon widen slightly before his features turn into an half angry half uneasy grimace, muttering something and looking down at his plate. When he stabs into the food it’s clearly with more force than necessary. The Paradise Bird sets her sunglasses down on the table. The way she strokes her fingers along the man’s arm is so casual, he nearly misses it, just as the motion under the table when the Raven slightly moves his leg to press it against the other’s thigh. The Falcon between them stays silent, but his scowl eases a little along with the slight tension in his shoulders. Interesting, although he can’t really make sense of it. There is something between them he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

The Raven and the Paradise Bird continue talking while trying to steal from each other's plates. They seem pretty content with each other’s company, even when the Falcon between them doesn’t participate in their conversation anymore. It’s more than entertaining trying to figure out which one he likes best. Maybe the little Paradise Bird with the way her fingers flutter around, examining everything within her reach. Or the Falcon with all the strength trapped within him, so obvious even with his wings drawn close to his body. Maybe the Raven showing himself off proudly, his cunning intelligence shimmering through his act. He wants all of them, but he knows that he can’t manage it. He tried to keep more than one at a time, but it never ended well. Too much to consider, too much work. Even if this set is more than intriguing, he has to decide. Maybe he’ll just let them all go. Some are to keep, some are to fly. Still they look almost too pretty to pass up.

The Falcon defends something on his plate from the Paradise Bird just to lose it to the Raven. They keep up this pretty game, until some men from the table next to them start to make noise. A variety of slurs, loud enough to carry over to him, some of them distinctly aimed at Eastern Europe. His three little birds ignore them mostly, although the woman gives them a surprisingly intimidating glare. The Raven raises his hand to wave a waitress over to them, probably for the bill. A certain kind of anger rises from within him, that these men dared to shoo away his beautiful birds before he’s done with them. He watches as they get up and put on their coats.

He sees it before they do. It’s impressive that the Falcon stays perfectly silent as the cup of coffee hits his neck. He stops dead in his motion of closing up his jacket just before his hand begins to twitch. The liquid is hot enough to color his skin red where it hit it, leaving a dark stain on the brown leather jacket and the collar of his turtleneck. Just when he thought that the Falcon would turn around, the Raven grabs his arm and pulls him out of the diner. 

His eyes follow them just until he hears the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Surprised he looks back to see the little Paradise Bird, staring down every man in turn, her handprint clearly forming on the cheek of the assailant. With her head held high she leaves the diner, where the other two birds are waiting for her. The Raven has pulled out a handkerchief and dabs at the Falcon, who just stares right through him, his hands balled to fists shaking slightly. The Falcon nods at something the other man said, but his gaze stays directed at nothing until the Paradise Bird grabs his hand. She should appear tiny next to him, but somehow she doesn’t. She keeps his hand in hers while the Raven pulls off his scarf and drapes it over the other man, covering most of the wet spots. He moves on the other side of the Falcon, his hand resting on the man’s shoulder blade as they start walking away.

This is the moment when he gets it. He can barely suppress a laugh. Now that he figured it out, it’s been obvious all along. Between the three of them, the Falcon is the really precious one. He’s one of these people you have to fight for, just to get a small smile or a little closeness. A challenge, as impossible to win as to quit once you started.

And just like that he made his choice. He leaves enough money on the table to cover his bill and follows them out. Even on the streets, his little birds stand out among the rest. He can’t wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya wakes up in a cold bed. It shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. They agreed to let Solo play the husband this time and it’s fine. Still somehow he got used to have Gaby sleeping beside him. Or even Solo, but after the fiasco in the Icelandic cottage just a month back this had to stop. He wonders when he became so attached to them, so weak.

He grabs his father’s watch from the nightstand and puts it on before getting up. It’s too early for Gaby to be up, but Solo is probably already making breakfast. He lays out clothes and takes a quick shower. The skin on the back of his neck is still tender from the coffee hitting him yesterday. Sloppy. He shouldn’t let his guard down like that. He knows he’s losing his edge, little by little. He feels too comfortable, too secure. It’s not good. Not at all. Again he plays with the thought to ask Waverly to assign him to another team. It would be better, would make him a better agent, but the second he thinks about leaving his partners, his throat closes up. It’s really not good. His fingers search the burned patch of skin and dig into it. He can be better than that. He has to be.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish with his morning routine. He runs his hand through his hair. He recognizes the motion as something he sees Solo do regularly. He ignores it.

His father’s watch ticks eagerly at his wrist. Yesterday was close again. He knows just a year back he would have beaten the men half to death without even leaving the diner. But somehow he didn’t. Gaby and Solo managed to stop him, something he couldn’t manage on his own for so long, sometimes still can’t. Pathetic.

He contemplates to skip breakfast with them for playing chess. He needs to sort everything out in his head, but he can’t when they’re around. Still he doesn’t take the chessboard out its case and leaves his suite instead. They will probably annoy him anyway until he joins them. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He almost steps on the small box placed just outside of his door. He frowns at it before picking it up. It’s wrapped in red paper with an envelope stuck beneath it. He unpacks the box to find a salve for burns and irritated skin. He’s still frowning when he pulls out a neatly folded sheet of paper out of the envelope.

_Your skin is way too pretty for burn marks, little bird. I want to be the only one to worry it red._

Before Illya knows, he stands in front of Solo and Gaby’s suite and nearly punches a dent in the door. It takes only a few seconds before it's opened. He runs over a surprised Solo the moment he fits through the door. In a swift movement he grabs the other man’s collar and shoves him against the wall, his fist firmly pressed against the throat.

“You think you’re funny, Cowboy?”

Solo’s expression turns from surprised to confused. He sounds a little winded from the pressure against his throat, but it doesn’t help with his usual arrogance. “Well yes, but I thought Russians are allergic to humor in every form.”

Illya refrains from punching him in the face, but it’s a close thing. Instead he shoves the envelope with the package against his chest. “It’s not humor, if one cannot let it go.”

Solo’s brows furrow in earnest. “What are you talking about?”

His partner’s faked ignorance just fuels his anger more. He remembers Solo’s jab yesterday perfectly well. Solo knows. He read his file, Illya even told him last month in Iceland so that he would _understand_. The words fall from his mouth so fast, he registers them only when they are already out. “Not everyone enjoys whoring around like you.”

He knows they hit their mark by the lack of reaction. Solo’s face freezes in place, the response dying on his lips. Good. Illya is sick of his way of twisting words until he’s not sure what he wants to say.

Illya hears a door open behind him. He lets Solo go and turns around. Gaby pads into the living area, still in her pajamas and rubbing her eyes.

She glances around to frown at them next to the door. “What is it with you two again?”

Illya just snorts and steps away from the other man. He stays silent. The blood in his veins is still hot with anger, his fists just shy of shaking. He can hear Solo clearing his throat. His voice sounds still a little rougher than usual. “Breakfast is ready. Would you set the table, Gaby?”

Gaby raises an eyebrow at them, but leaves them alone. Illya turns to go up to his own rooms again. Coming down was not a good idea. His departure is stopped by Solo, casually leaning against the door, his expression sincere, the envelope and salve still in his hands. “Care to explain yourself, Peril?”

Illya’s fists stay down this time, interrupted by the slowly forming bruise on Solo’s throat. Illya forces his eyes not to dwell on it and meets Solo’s gaze. Shame starts to mingle with his rage, leaving him even more defenseless. He hates it. He hates losing control, the damage he does unable to stop himself. He wants to go back to his room, to be alone, but he knows the American won’t let him leave that easily. “You know what this is about. Let me go.”

Solo studies him for what feels like hours, then his gaze falls to the things in his hand. “What is this?”

Before Illya can let out anything more than a snort, Solo is interrupting him again. “Don’t say, I know what this is, because I don’t.”

His anger threatens to spill over again, when Illya notices it. There’s always some mischievous glint in Solo’s eyes when he’s playing Illya. It’s missing now. Illya’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You don’t know.”

Solo shakes his head once firmly. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Neither of them noticed that Gaby sneaked back into the room. She’s getting better at that. “So? What is it then?”

Another suspicion rises in Illya’s mind. He examines her carefully, the way she’s leaning in the doorway, how her face is relaxed but her eyes show slight concern. He dismisses the idea again. He’s sure she didn’t leave the note, it’s not her style. She likes to use a more direct approach in such things. He knows from experience.

“Nothing of your concern, then.”

He already extended his hand to snatch back the salve with the envelope from Solo, just to find thin air in front of him. Damn thief with his damn silent steps.

The second he turns around, Solo is already at Gaby’s side and tosses her the envelope while he takes a closer look at the salve. Illya has barely the time to blink before Gaby let’s out a surprised laugh. She punches Solo playfully against his shoulder. “Little bird? A little over the top, don’t you think?”

Solo lets out an undignified huff and plucks the note from Gaby’s hand. “I'm never—“

He stops in the middle of the sentence to stare at the note. His frown lets Illya finally move again. He snatches the note from Solo’s grasp without resistance. Solo stares at Illya, then at the salve before his frown transforms into his usual smirk. “My, Peril. A secret admirer. Who would have thought you had it in you?”

“I don’t –“ Illya closes his mouth again and settles for glaring at his partner. Gaby takes the salve from Solo’s hand, a more than slightly amused smirk planted on her face. “A really thoughtful one, although I wouldn’t use your little gift. I have a better one without dubious origin. Can your neck wait until we had breakfast, Illya?”

“I do not need salve.”

Solo pats him on the shoulder before he makes his way to the living room. “Sure you don’t, Peril, but your new friend is quite right. Wouldn’t do to mess up the Lords work, would it?”

Gaby hums in agreement before she follows Solo into the other room. “After breakfast, then.”

Illya has half a mind to just leave the suite. Even if they didn’t write the note, they are still mocking him. He’s got a mirror. He knows perfectly well what he looks like, what his face looks like. He carries more scars than he cares to count. Another one would barely make a difference. He dismisses the thought as irrelevant and finds his partners at the huge table in the living room. As usual Solo overdid it again with breakfast, but Illya learned to let it be. Would be a shame to throw it away though.


	3. Chapter 3

Surveillance is not the problem. Once they get the location of the mark, Illya is on them like a bloodhound. Finding the mark is more trouble. The leads on their target turned out to be dead ends, leaving them with next to nothing but a couple of dead bodies, more than three dozen persons still missing and nothing hinting at the leader of the human trafficking ring. This is usually when Napoleon comes in. His teammates lack the patience to let the mark come to them, and not the other way around.

Here’s the thing: if you throw around enough cash, someone is willing to pick up your trail. The more money you toss, the bigger the fish. You don’t even need to own all of it, as long as you can sell it. And nobody sells it like Napoleon.

Hiding in plain sight was always his favorite plan of action, simply because it works best for him. He already spent two hours at this particular gentlemen's club at the river and almost worked his way through the different circles attending. It’s not even hard for him anymore to make them approach him and not the other way around. A few light conversations to establish his cover: rich, newly-wed and already bored. Looking for distraction, modern women too mouthy for his tastes, giving off a little shady vibe. Easy. He talks to them for maybe ten minutes and watches for a single emotion shining through. Greed namely. They won’t approach him tonight, but he will know if it’s worth his time to return to this place later this week.

He makes his way through the crowd easily, eyes following him everywhere but not one pair of them picking up on his wandering hands. He already lifted a pair of earrings, two watches, one necklace and three rings. It’s more for fun than for any other purpose, although he will probably give the rings to his partners. If Peril wants to throw jewelry around like candy, fine. Napoleon can keep up. The one he took for Gaby is way more fashionable than Peril’s choice and it’s not bugged. The others are more inconspicuous and almost similar, but still beautiful. He only took both because he isn’t sure of the Russians ring size. Better safe than sorry.

As he talks to one of the regular patrons, some older guy with an even more terrible fashion sense than his partner, he contemplates delaying his presents though. The incident yesterday morning left Peril irritated. Napoleon thinks it’s hilarious, but likes his teeth too much to overly tease the Russian about his secret admirer. When the older guy stares at him expectantly, Napoleon makes some offhand remark that coaxes a laugh out of the man. It’s almost too simple and Solo gets the feeling he is in the wrong place. At least tonight. He pays for his drinks, tips generously and leaves the club.

The night is cold and clear when he steps out. He misses his scarf terribly, but the coffee stains ruined it. Still he would do the same thing again if given the chance. Illya is all too aware of his anger, but Napoleon doesn’t think he knows how he looks when it subsides. He tries to cover it up when Gaby or Napoleon are around, but it only does so much to conceal the utter exhaustion and misery in his eyes. Napoleon absently rubs his neck where Peril’s fist was pressed against him yesterday. It didn’t even hurt that much, at least the fist. _Not everyone enjoys whoring around like you._

That stung. Napoleon doesn’t even know why. He’s never had a problem with his reputation. It’s not even close to the top ten of things thrown at his head. Peril has to get a lot more creative to knock Sanders off his throne of malice. But it stung. Still does, if Napoleon is honest with himself. And he exactly knows why.

He lets out a breath and watches it cloud the cold air. He planned to take a cab, but walking seems fine right now. The streets are empty, too late for shift ends, too early for the party crowds stumbling home. He wonders if Gaby’s still up, if he hurries. It wasn’t even hard to turn down the offers to spend the night elsewhere, now that he has someone to go home to. Even if said someone is either drunk, asleep or has company herself. 

He doesn’t even mind Illya around when he returns. Really, his presence makes a happily drunk Gaby more likely and it never fails to amuse Napoleon to watch the two awkwardly dance around each other, literally or figuratively. He knows what Peril sees in her and he’s right to adore her. She is smart, strong and utterly unapologetic. It’s somehow easier to breath in her vicinity. She doesn’t make excuses for what she likes or wants and withholds judgment of her own. She is good for them. He just wishes that Peril would open his damn mouth in the foreseeable future. Napoleon told him not to be ashamed, but changing something so deep within a person takes time and more than one hushed conversation in Iceland’s cottages. Gaby will understand and tell him the same, but well, he needs to say something first.

It sounds selfish even in his own head, but if the two don’t get their act together, the team will fall into pieces sooner or later and this is something Napoleon can’t have. He always worked alone, but not for the lack of trying. Turned out that most of the CIA don’t like to be bested by a former criminal. He never was partnered with anyone long enough to get comfortable, let alone like anyone. Others only slowed him down, proved to be liabilities. He never fitted in and he never wanted to. He still doesn’t, but that’s okay because neither does Gaby nor Peril.

He quickens his pace as the cold starts to creep into his coat. It takes only a few more minutes to reach the hotel they’re staying in. He greets the girl behind the desk and climbs up the stairs. When he unlocks the door to his suite, he finds it quiet and dark. The curtains aren’t drawn so a little light still falls in from the streets. The suite is tidy, nothing left out or thrown to the ground and not picked up again, which is kind of uncommon. He pushes open the bedroom door to confirm his suspicion. The bed is empty. He fishes the jewelry out of his coat and leaves the suite.

He would like to say that he found the right room instantly because of his extraordinary memory, but that would be a lie. He finds it because of the wrapped up package lying right in front of it. It’s box-shaped and wrapped in dark blue paper. Another envelope is stuck on top of it. Napoleon doesn’t bother to hold back a wide grin.

He picks it up and knocks on the door. A few moments later a slightly red cheeked Gaby opens it. Before she can say anything, her gaze drops to the package in Napoleon's hands. She looks up to Napoleon again before breaking out in laughter. Peril appears behind her in an instant. His frown only deepens when his eyes fall on the package. Napoleon clears his throat pointedly. “Would you two let me in?”

Illya shoots him an impressive glare over Gaby’s head. It somewhat lost its effect on Napoleon over the last few weeks. “Look, I just picked it up from the floor. If I wanted to give you something, I would just do it.” Or more likely sneak it into his things for him to find later when he’s in safer distance.

Gaby leaves Illya no chance to respond and takes a few steps back to make him give way. Napoleon follows her in and leaves it for Peril to close the door, shoving the package at him when he walks past. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it up next to the door.

The Russian’s rooms are small, a lot smaller than anything Napoleon would have chosen to stay in. There is a tiny kitchen stuffed in one corner, nothing more than a sink and two plates next to a small fridge. The so called living room is not even the size of Gaby and Napoleon’s bedroom. A small couch and one armchair are cramped around some table too low for anything besides putting up their feet, which is exactly what Napoleon does once he sits down on the couch.

Gaby is either a mind reader or just tired of drinking alone, because before Napoleon can so much open his mouth she hands him a drink. “Did something interesting happen while you were out?”

He takes a sip and is rather pleased with Gaby’s choice for him. “Sadly not until I came here.”

With a grin she snatches her half-filled glass from the table and sinks down in the armchair. The chess game on the table in front of her seems to be on-going. Judging by the innocent look she throws Illya when he finally turns to reclaim his seat, it was a tactical move. “Come sit and open your present, Illya.”

He awkwardly stands between them and the door, what would have been in the middle of the room if it was large enough to have a middle, watching them with his gift in his hands.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him and shuffles pointedly a little to the side of the couch. “Aren’t you curious, Peril?” Admittedly, there’s still not much space left. Peril would have no problem filling the couch alone.

Still the Russian moves to sit beside him with nothing more than his usual frown. He perches on the edge, while Napoleon leans back with a silent sigh. If Illya doesn’t want to get comfortable, that’s not his concern. He drapes his arm on the backrest behind the other man for effect, but Illya either ignores the gesture or doesn’t even notice it. With more care than necessary Illya removes the blue paper. Within is a black box, not unlike the ones used for jewelry. Illya eyes it suspiciously. “I’m not sure if I should open it. Maybe it is a trap.”

Napoleon considers it a moment. “Well if it is, you would probably be dead already, since you opened the last one with the letter. Seems to make little sense to me, if they only prepped the second one.”

Gaby hums in agreement, but Illya still just stares at the box unmoving. More curious than he’d like to admit, Napoleon stands up. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Illya’s frown follows him through the room, where Napoleon fetches his gloves from his coat pockets.

“I do not need your help, Cowboy.”

“Didn’t say otherwise.”

He winks at his partner while putting on his gloves, the black leather like a second skin. “We can’t end a possible love story before it has really begun, can we?” 

Gaby raises her glass. “No, we can’t.” She takes another sip and rearranges herself so she’s lying across the armchair, her feet dangling over the armrest.

It is a little unfair, that only Napoleon is subject of Peril’s Russian death stare, but he takes it as a compliment. He’s not particularly careful as he sits down next to Illya and ends up with even less space between them. He can feel the other man slightly tense at that, but he doesn’t try to move away, either because there is nowhere left to move away to or out of sheer stubbornness, maybe both.

It’s clearly over the top to open the box like it’s wired to a bomb, but Napoleon does it anyway. The box is not heavy enough for something like that, still a little practice never harmed anyone. As expected nothing happens when Napoleon lifts the top. 

Below it is a folded red cloth. He picks it up at the seam and unfolds it. Illya stares at it with complete lack of understanding. With a light smirk Napoleon turns to his partner. “It’s a scarf.”

“I can see that.”

Gaby just grins into her glass. “Open the envelope.”

Napoleon reaches for the discarded message but Illya beats him to it. The Russian all but tears open the envelope and unfolds the piece of paper. There are mere seconds between that and Illya crushing the message in his fist with a muttered curse in Russian. He’s up and pacing so fast he almost knocks Napoleon to the side, leaving the message crumpled into a ball on the ground. After sharing a glance with Gaby, Napoleon picks it up. He carefully straightens the paper again. The sound makes Illya come to a sudden stop, his expression almost slipping from anger to distress.

“Cowboy don’t –“

“So you can throw out your friend’s and won’t be cold, little bird. I want to be the one to keep you warm and I don’t like to share.”

For a second the words just echo between them, Illya’s expression as close to horrified as they’ve ever seen. Gaby is the first one who breaks. She tries to cover her impending laughter by raising her glass to her lips, but she only ends up choking on her drink. It’s a sign of Napoleon’s self-control not to join in. For a second he wishes Sanders would be here right now, only to shove his stupid dossier right in his face. So much for D3 control disorder, APA. He puts the scarf back into the box and lays the note on top halfway stuffed back into the envelope.

“Well good luck with trying to warm those hands.”

Napoleon blinks in surprise after the words escaped his mouth. Illya’s glare is downright murderous. Well, maybe Sanders had a point in this one. Fortunately Gaby comes to his rescue before Peril snaps his neck by stumbling to her feet and cutting off Illya’s path on her way to a refill.

“So maybe you picked up your secret admirer at the diner.”

For a moment she sways on her feet but is steadied almost immediately by Illya’s hands on her shoulders. She throws a smile in Illya’s direction, which dissolves his thunderous glare in not even a second. If Illya’s new friend is not into sharing, then Gaby should be definitely the major concern in the picture.

Illya takes his chance to reclaim the armchair while Gaby fixes herself another drink. Her movements are a little uncoordinated as she slides down on the couch next to Napoleon. She leans against his shoulder, but her eyes stay with Illya. “At least you can’t argue with her taste.”

Napoleon matches her gaze just to see Illya try not to squirm. It’s a more than a little endearing how Illya is more comfortable facing a dozen armed men than just being the center of attention. Still practice makes perfect. In Peril’s case practice is very much able to harm, mostly Napoleon, but someone has to fill that role. And there’s the thing, that teasing Illya is one of Napoleon’s favorite spare time activities. 

“I can’t fully agree.”

Illya scoffs at that but his eyes still flicker to the side for a moment. Napoleon tips his head slightly and lets his eyes wander down the other man’s body and back up to his face in an obvious manner. He can see the way Illya refuses to be affected by it. Still there is a slight tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

“Red is not the right color for you.” He waits until Illya meets his gaze again. “Not with your eyes.”

Gaby leans a little closer and copies his movements way better than she should be able to after all these drinks. “Too beautiful to ignore.” With an affirmative hum Napoleon reaches blindly for his glass. Slowly he brings it to his lips, well aware that Illya’s eyes flutter back and forth between him and Gaby, neither able to settle nor to look away. They’re really beautiful, icy blue tinted with grey, like a storm in winter. The liquor is nice and heavy on Napoleon’s tongue as he takes a sip. “And who said it’s a _her_.”

There is a short silence between them, then Illya all but leaps from his seat. His eyes stay firmly on the chess set in front of him. “I go to bed. Let yourself out.” His eyes fall shortly on the now closed package. “And take that with you.”

Gaby is almost as fast on her feet as he is and catches up to him before he can flee into his bedroom. Peril loses the game the moment Gaby gets her hand on his upper arm. Napoleon leans back to enjoy the show when Illya turns back around reluctantly. Gaby’s movements are slow, but determined as she reaches up to his face. Napoleon doesn’t even try to suppress his smile about Illya’s face when she makes him bend down a little to press a soft kiss on his cheek. They stare at each other and Napoleon thinks it’s finally happening, but then Illya blinks and takes a step back. Gaby doesn’t follow him, but doesn’t retreat either. “Sleep well, Illya.”

The soft smile on Peril’s face almost makes up for the disappointment that nothing else happened. “Good night.” He nods in Napoleons direction, which is a somewhat pleasant surprise. It wouldn’t have shocked Napoleon if Illya had forgotten about him in this moment.

Napoleon tips his glass in his direction. “Good night yourself, little bird.” It’s even more surprising that Peril takes the quip as what it is, just a quip, and disappears into his bedroom with nothing but a relaxed huff.

After the door is pulled shut Napoleon gets up from the couch and gathers his things. By the time he’s ready to go, Gaby is still standing in front of the closed bedroom door. Napoleon takes up position next to her. If this whole ordeal is frustrating for him, it must be even worse for them. He glances down at her and raises his arm in offering. “Miss Teller, ready to retire?”

She visibly deflates as she takes his arm. Napoleon gently leads her out. The alcohol seems finally to catch up to her as she starts to lean more heavily on him as they take the stairs down to their suite. She’s the first to use the bathroom while Napoleon hides the jewelry in his suitcase and puts away the standard equipment he always carries around. She emerges shortly after he’s finished. 

By the time Napoleon gets in between the covers, Gaby’s already stretched out on her side of the bed. It’s more than big enough for them, so there is plenty of unclaimed space in the middle of it. They both mutter a good night, then Napoleon closes his eyes. He’s more than tired enough to sleep, but his body refuses to comply. He hopes that this is not one of those nights. It’s been not so bad the past few months and he doesn’t want that to change. Carefully he turns his head to the side. Gaby doesn’t move a muscle, but Napoleon knows she’s not asleep either. He can almost hear her brooding. It’s obvious in the way she breathes, how her arms are crossed in front of her. Not hard to guess what she’s thinking about or rather whom.

“He is trying.”

A deep sigh emits from Gaby’s side, before she turns to face him. “I know.”

Darkness stretches between them, until Gaby takes an audible breath. “I just wished he would trust me like he trusts you.”

Napoleon’s first reflex is to tell Gaby that Illya doesn’t trust him, but it’s probably true. At least in the extent that he’s able to trust. But Napoleon is not the only one.

“He does trust you, Gaby. We both do.”

“Then what happened in Iceland which neither of you talk about?”

Napoleon is glad for the darkness in the room, so Gaby might miss his body tensing. He struggles for words, which he rarely does, but Gaby beats him to it.

“There is nothing in the record, but there is something you won't tell me. I'm not stupid. You both act different since that mission and I don't know why.” There is a certain thickness in her voice, which makes Napoleon reach out to her. His fingers find her shoulder and give her a comforting squeeze.

“This has nothing to do with trust, believe me.” The words that would just explain everything burn in his throat, but he won’t betray Illya like that, not even for his own sake. Instead he shuffles a little further to the middle of the bed. A slight tug at Gaby’s shoulder is enough to bring her close until her head is resting on his shoulder. It’s nice, comforting, the feeling not to be alone with this. Which is kind of dumb, since it’s not his own pain. He’s not even part of all this, but maybe that’s the point.

“Sometimes it’s harder to talk to the people you care about.”

“He talked to you though, didn’t he?”

Napoleon swallows and brings his arm up behind her to trace small patterns on her upper arm. “He only talked to me because he- “ 

Because he almost choked Napoleon in his sleep and not because he wanted Napoleon to know, but that won’t help Gaby at all. 

“…because he had to.” And it hurt Illya. Three sentences spoken aloud was all it took to truly hurt him, rip open the scars that he carefully concealed for years.

He can feel Gaby’s sigh against his neck, when she realizes that he won’t say more to that matter. “How is your insomnia?” A guilty kind of relief spreads in Napoleon with the sudden change of topic, although he thought he managed to conceal his little problem. Gaby’s skills are improving faster than he thought. She still lacks experience in the field, but only at the things Illya and him tried to spare her so far. They won’t be able to do that much longer he fears.

“Manageable, I hope. Yours?”

“It’s not that bad if I know you’re both at home and not bleeding out somewhere.” 

This shouldn’t be funny, but a low chuckle escapes him anyway.

“That’s good.”

Napoleon’s eyelids drop. If it helps Gaby, maybe they should work something out for their next assignment, so all three of them stay in one suite. It’s not a bad idea. It would be safer, simpler. They would be fighting all day over everything and nothing probably, but it’s not that different from now he guesses. If they had a little time to spare he could cook something for them. Something good, not just breakfast.

Sleep comes suddenly and fast and grabs Napoleon to drag him under. Gaby makes no move to withdraw herself and neither does Napoleon. His hand stops drawing circles, but he lets it stay on Gaby’s arm. She doesn’t seem to mind. Instead she lets out a quiet yawn.

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?” Napoleon isn’t too sure if it came out intelligible, but it was apparently enough.

“The scarf. You really didn’t bring it?”

He rolls his head from one side to the other. That should be enough of a headshake really. His nose is now buried in Gaby’s hair. It smells good, so he doesn’t bother to lift his head again.

“Would have gotten him something he likes.”

Gaby hums and shifts a little against him. He feels her bring up one hand to rest on his chest. It’s strange, but good. For all the people he brings home usually, he never got quite comfortable sleeping so close to somebody. He guesses it’s some kind of a spy thing. Maybe it’s not that of a big surprise that his partners are an exception to the rule then. For a second he thinks of shifting his hand a little lower, but he dismisses the idea not a second later. Gaby is beautiful, no doubt, but she’s too important for him to try anything. Too special, too good.

He’s more asleep than awake, when he hears Gaby mumble against his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t mind sharing, if it’s with the right person.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but his eyes stay closed. He can’t make sense of it, although it makes him feel warm somehow. The thought dissolves as sleep claims him, but the warmth stays. He dreams of birds.


	4. Chapter 4

Gaby wakes up alone, which is neither particularly pleasant nor surprising, to the smell of breakfast and to the noise of another furious knocking on their door. With a curse she jumps out of bed. She is greeted with the sight of Solo in his ridiculous apron and a spatula in his hand. Gaby is both too tired and fed up with their bullshit to acknowledge him when she rushes past. The door stays in working order out of sheer luck when she yanks it open.

“Was?!”

Illya’s fist freezes on the way to another knock. For a second he can’t hide his surprise before his scowl is back in place. He opens his mouth but Gaby won’t have any of it.

“No.”

She closes the door in his face. There is silence for a few moments before Illya knocks again. She knows that Solo leans in the doorway watching her. The sound of Illya’s fist hitting wood resonates in her skull. If she didn’t notice the slight hangover, she sure does now. She opens the door again.

“Gaby let me—“

She throws the door again when Illya shoves his foot in. The door still flies out of her hand, hits Illya's ankle and bounces back. If the blow hurts he doesn’t show it.

“—in.”

Since she lacks the force to smash his foot, she steps outside and right in Illya’s space. Her head is at the level of his chest, but she couldn’t care less.

“If you woke me to go at Solo’s throat again, I swear there will be blood.” She glares up at him to get her point across. He stares back, but his mouth stays closed. Good. “So if I let you in, you act like a normal person. You got it?”

The glaring match continues for another ten seconds, then Illya nods. Gaby turns around, but leaves the door open this time. “And you knock on a door and not try to punch your way in. We are not deaf.” She hears the door close behind her. At least Solo already made coffee. She takes her usual seat on the table, which is loaded with food by now, and reaches for the coffeepot. Illya makes no move to join her, which is both fine with her and at the same time not at all. She takes a sip and closes her eyes hoping that the caffeine would make up for the sleep she’s missing. Absently she wonders how Solo and Illya do it. Maybe she’s going to get used to it someday.

Solo brings in pancakes piled up on a plate and sets them down. There’s this tense silence between them again, the one back from Rome when they didn’t trust each other yet. Illya remains standing just as Solo does. And she thought they made progress. Her headache is flaring again. To her surprise Illya is the first to break the silence.

“Why did you take my chess set?”

Gaby turns around to look at him again. Illya still looks angry but not like he would lose it any second. He looks more… betrayed? 

Solo tilts his head slightly to the side. “Indeed, why would we do that?”

Gaby nods. “We left it out on the table.” She knows that he likes to finish every game, even the ones that are already decided.

Illya’s fingers are flexing, but in a controlled manner, as he stares at both of them in turn. He swallows a few times before taking a deep breath.

“I want you to stop.” 

Solo throws a questioning glance in Gaby’s direction, but she has no idea what Illya means, either.

Illya turns his head slightly to the side, so he faces rather the wall than them. “Stop playing tricks on me. I don’t like it.”

Solo frowns and crosses his arms before his chest. “Is this about the gifts?”

Illya nods solemnly. Gaby looks at Solo, but not because she wants him to confess. She’s sure, that he didn’t lie last night.

“Illya, it wasn’t us.”

Now Illya looks somewhere between angry and confused, while Solo’s frown deepens. 

“So your chess set was not on the table this morning?”

Illya shakes his head and just like that their not so uncommon morning dispute turns in a very unsettling direction. Solo shrugs off his apron while Gaby fetches her robe out of the bathroom. Illya and Solo wait for her in the door, already the small briefcase they packed for basic work in Illya’s hand. It’s good to see that they stopped trying to leave her behind for such things, at least it’s something they let her do. 

Together they climb up the stairs to Illya’s room. Solo crouches in front of the door while Illya takes out a smaller version of Solo’s tool kit. Without even looking Solo reaches back and draws out two shiny picks to inspect the lock. He barely touched it when he puts them back again. “Someone definitely broke in here. Do you see the notches?” Gaby doesn’t bother looking and studies Illya’s face instead, which is decidedly blank. They all know Solo checks every lock before they decide to stay somewhere longer than a night. Illya hands him the key. The first thing Gaby notices is not the missing chess board. Illya likes his places neat, but this seems unlikely. Still she has to ask. “You didn’t clean the place this morning, did you?” Another silent headshake.

Napoleon follows her gaze to the now empty table. “Someone put away our glasses.”

Gaby nods. “And wiped the table.” And arranged the bottles on the counter. And sorted the records Gaby brought. She turns to Illya again, who looks slightly pale. “Did you go through your things and checked if anything else is missing besides the chess set?” The way Illya darts into his bedroom answers her question. Gaby and Solo stay back and start to sort through the living area. Solo takes the kitchen counter, Gaby works her way around the table. The first envelope is stuck between the cushions of the armchair. Solo finds another in the fridge of all places, next to a stack of waffles. The third falls into Gaby’s hands when she opens the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror accompanied by a wrapped package.

By the time Illya joins them back in the living room, they have assembled everything on the table. At the sight of the stacked table he freezes for a second. Solo sits down in the armchair. “Anything in your bedroom?”

Illya blinks a few times before turning to his partner. “Nothing.” The relief at that is swallowed by the thought of Illya sleeping with some stranger sneaking around in the room next to him. Which poses another question. Why didn’t he notice anything? On most days his sleep is light to the point where she’s not sure he sleeps at all. She remembers Illya waking once at the sound of the inhabitant of the suite next to them unlocking their door. The question hangs heavy in the air without even being spoken. Judging from Solo’s gaze in Illya’s direction, he thinks the same.

Gaby sits down on the couch and pats the seat beside her. Reluctantly Illya joins her. Each one of them grabs one of the envelope. They rip them open and throw the messages on the table. Gaby unwraps the small package and finds a small bottle of perfume in it. She sets it down next to the unfolded messages on the table.

_Eat up, little bird. Stay strong and beautiful for me._

_So you smell like me already, little bird. Everyone should know, who you belong to._

_Chess is such a dry game to play, especially alone, don’t you think little bird? Rather come play with me._  
  
They stay silent. Gaby wishes Solo would just start cracking jokes about them, but this just doesn’t pass as funny anymore. The tone of the messages makes her sick. And angry. How dare they? How dare they call him pet names, to break into his rooms, to take his things, to talk about him like they _know_ him. Illya doesn’t even like waffles, or anything sweet for breakfast. Solo’s pancakes are the only exception. And he plays against himself because they can’t challenge him, because he’s too good to play against anyone else, because--

Her throat closes up. She picks up the last message, reads it again. “How do they know that you play alone?”

Solo stands up in one fluid motion. The tension in his jaw betrays the calmness of his voice. “We’re leaving. Now. Double check everything we take with us for trackers or bugs.”

“We can’t leave the city.” Illya’s eyes still linger on the messages. “We must complete our mission.”

For a few seconds Gaby’s mind comes up blank with anything but rage. He can’t be serious. Lucky for them Solo is faster than her to reply. “Waverly will send another team and it will be fine.”

“No.” Finally he looks up to them again. “This is nothing. We won’t fail.” They know each other long enough to hear the _because of me_ in the silence after it. Gaby lets out a sigh and rubs her eyes. She has to remind herself, that she chose this. She chose them regardless of their occasional dumbness and she won’t let anyone touch them if she can help it. Period. 

“We still have to relocate.” She cuts of Illya before he can get out a single word. “No buts or anything. I won’t have it. Go pack. Now.”

After a small silence, Illya nods and gets up. She lets out another sigh, but this one is out of relief. Solo squeezes her shoulder, when he passes by. “Good job.”  
She watches Solo follow Illya to his bedroom to help him pack. She starts wrapping up the little things left out in the living and checks Illya’s coat for hidden bugs. She finds one of Solo’s trackers, but Illya probably knows that it’s there, so she puts it back. 

She goes through the bathroom and collects Illya’s razor. It’s probably a little over the top to leave the rest of his things behind, but she would rather risk Illya’s dismay than have him slowly poisoned by his aftershave or something.

They need a little longer to gather and check everything, but that leaves time for Gaby to burn the messages in an ashtray, flush the perfume down the sink and throw the waffles in the trash. In an afterthought she takes the razor and carefully slices through one envelope so she can fold it open. The pen is in her hand before she knows where she found it. The refolded envelope just disappeared back between the cushions where she found it in the first place by the time Solo and Illya emerge from the bedroom. Solo sniffs pointedly, the scent of the perfume still noticeable in the air, and raises an eyebrow at Gaby. With a small shrug in his direction she gathers Illya’s coat from where it hangs next to the door. She waits for Illya and Solo to leave the suite and closes the door behind them. She doesn’t bother to lock it again. 

They pack up everything in Gaby and Solo’s shared suite next. Their breakfast is cold and they leave it behind. Their rented car is almost too small for them with their baggage, but they make do. Gaby gets in behind the wheel, Solo to her right and Illya stretches out over the backseat.

Solo leans a little to the side to watch the people on the streets in the rearview mirror. “Get us on the other side of the city.” Gaby turns the keys and the car comes to life. “You have a destination in mind?” Solo nods without looking away from the mirror. “I know a place. Go.” Gaby complies at once.

They notice the car following them after three blocks. Gaby curses once and drives a little faster, but not fast enough to draw attention. She circles one area, just to let them know they spotted them. As the traffic light in front of them turns red, Gaby jumps at the opportunity. She hits the gas pedal and shoots over the crossing just before traffic sets in again. It earns her not just a few honks, but they leave their follower behind. She drives around another few minutes to check for more, but nothing catches their eyes. Solo directs them to a smaller alley parallel to the busy streets and makes them stop in front of an unremarkable four-story building. They take out their things in silence. Solo gets out a set of keys Gaby never saw before and unlocks the door. After sharing a glance, Illya and Gaby follow him up the stairs until they reach the top. Illya eyes the door suspiciously. The heavy lock clearly doesn’t match the slightly rundown state of the rest of the building. “What kind of place is this?”

Solo produces another key out of thin air.

“A safe house.”

Gaby frowns. She is one hundred percent sure that U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t have one in this city. “Is it CIA?”

“No.” He pushes open the door. 

It’s a loft, not really big but airy, the furniture covered with white sheets. 

Solo steps in first and sets down his bags in the middle of the room. He walks over to the wall and uncovers a framed painting. A small smile plays around his lips as he takes a step back to look at it properly. 

“It’s mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably already guessed it, but "was" is German for "what".


	5. Chapter 5

Illya volunteers to take care of their car. He returns it to the place where they got it and brings back a new one from another rental. By the time he returns, Solo and Gaby uncovered everything and cleaned out most of the dust. Both of them are currently wiping down the open kitchen, arguing already over dinner. After announcing his return, he lets them be to inspect the loft further. The place looks different than Illya would have expected. In every hotel they stayed in Solo always aimed for the most opulent and lavish suite he could get his hands on. Compared to them, the loft almost looks empty with its vast expanses of unoccupied space and the clean cut furniture. Illya bets everything in here is worth twice as much as anyone would suspect, but the room doesn’t brag with it. Even the few paintings on the walls refuse to draw overly much attention although they are beautiful enough. Illya can’t deny that he likes the way the loft feels, but that doesn’t help with the tight sensation in his stomach. They shouldn’t be here. This is a private place, he can almost taste it in the air. Solo didn’t invite them because he wanted to. He brought them here because of Illya’s failings. 

His case waits for him where he left it with their other luggage. He looks around for space to put them away when he notices it. No, he noticed it before but only now the implication hits him. A large bed takes up the far corner. There is only one door besides the one to the staircase. It’s slightly ajar and he can make out the white tiles of a bathroom. There is no other room. And no other bed.

Solo calling his name, or more accurately his nickname, disrupts his line of thought. He turns his head in his direction and wonders briefly when the last time was that someone gave him a real nickname, and not one for the sole cause to humiliate or insult him. Solo is currently putting his coat on, as is Gaby. “We’ll head out to get some groceries. You want anything special?”

Illya shakes his head.

“Alright, Peril. Make yourself at home.” He nods in direction of the huge dresser next to the bed. “There should be plenty of space left, if you want to start to unpack.” With a little mock-salute he turns away to offer Gaby his arm. Gaby takes it with an almost practiced ease. She winks at Illya over her shoulder. “Try not to break too many things until we’re back.” 

Illya watches them leave the loft with a small smile. As soon as the door falls shut, his smile drops a little. He noticed that his partners grew closer to each other in the last months. And that’s good, really. He likes to see them together, like last night sharing the couch, casually leaning against each other. They both deserve someone to hold on to. It’s a good choice. He can’t blame Gaby for stopping her waiting for him. Neither can he blame Solo for choosing Gaby. It’s Illya’s fault, if he’s left out.

Except he doesn’t feel left out. It’s confusing really.

Not wanting to think about his partners anymore Illya starts to unpack. He drags their bags and cases over to the dresser. When he opens it, he is greeted by empty shelves and wire hangers. There is only one suit hanging lonely in the middle of it and some black stealth gear stuffed in a lower shelf. Illya carefully places them on the right side.

One after the other he opens their cases and fills the dresser with their things. He uses Gaby’s dresses as a buffer between his and Solo’s clothes after that one time he accidently grabbed one of Solo’s sweaters. Their equipment goes into the one of the bottom shelves, their personal stuff he leaves in their bags for them to unpack although he has a pretty good idea, where they would want it. After putting everything away, he plants a few new bugs in his partner’s belongings. Solo found almost every one of them before they left the hotel, just like he got rid of all of the American’s. He has to be more careful with their hiding spots now. This is the perfect opportunity to get the upper hand and Illya will be damned, if he misses it.

He spends half an hour hiding bugs and trackers in folds and hems, under collars and buttons. He’s pleased with himself when he manages to squeeze one between the leather and the buckle of Solo’s favorite belt. He thinks about matching Gaby’s clothes, but that would only draw unwanted attention to the dresser. Instead he takes out the dossier Waverly handed them.

He sits down on one of the two chairs scattered around a rather small table. They are the only furniture to sit down on besides the bed. He briefly wonders how Solo will manage his breakfast routine with this little space, but that only brings up the memory of the stack of waffles they found in his fridge. With a snort he opens the dossier and arranges the content on the table in front of him. Reports of the people missing, pictures of them, pictures of the bodies they found. There are no connections between the victim’s lives, not even similarities. Different genders, body-types, ages, environments and nationalities, no trace of anything that they had in common before they were taken. Nobody even made the connection until U.N.C.L.E. investigated the case of a French minister’s missing child. They expected a ransom and terrorists and a rescue mission, but nothing ever came. Until they found _her_. 

At the end of the bodies is the photograph of the woman that survived. There are several more of her, of her bruises and injuries but Illya prefers the one from her missing person file. She looks strong in this one, with wind in her blond hair and a sparkle in her dark eyes. He hopes she can make it back there. It won’t be easy.

He pulls out her statement again. He read it at least ten times, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe he missed something. Getting taken after a party of the upper class. The warehouse, the other people, some women, a few men and a couple of children. Illya swallows against the bile rising in his throat and forces himself to read on. Blindfolds, an auction, the branding.

Illya pulls out another picture. The marking on every victim is the same, a feather just above the right collar bone. On the picture it’s still bright red, the skin burned away to the flesh below. It’s their only lead and so far they found nothing. Not Napoleon on his daily tour through the high society, not Illya himself on his nightly strolls. Now that he’s alone he doesn’t need to stifle his yawn. The warehouses he checked last night after his partners left were empty and although it didn’t surprise him, it did disappoint. Chances are that the warehouse he's looking for is not even within this area, but a few hours away by car. Still he had to check them. He can’t wait around and do nothing. A particular scar on his thigh starts to burn in phantom pain. He’s sick of it all. The rage within him raises its head and Illya draws in a few quick breaths. He won’t lose control. He needs to focus.

The warehouses are a dead end, but he’s not out of ideas. Next he’ll check brothels for that particular marking. That the ring sells so close to its home is unlikely, but not impossible. Another problem is the loft. Tonight he won’t be able to sneak out, not when his partners are not yet used to their surroundings. Which brings up the one-bed-situation again. It shouldn’t matter, but it does, more so since Iceland. He thought it wouldn’t bother him anymore and he doesn’t know what triggered him then, which is exactly why he’s dangerous. His handprints were visible on Solo’s neck for two weeks. Solo was strong enough to throw him off. Gaby won’t be. He can’t risk getting too close. He won’t hurt his partners, so sharing this bed with anyone if not both of them is not an option.

Quickly he puts back the pictures and reports into the dossier. With nothing else to do he takes out the book he grabbed at the last airport without much thought to it. Solo raised an amused eyebrow at him that Illya only understood after reading the first few pages. He wouldn’t have bought it if he knew it was one of those spy books, but _You Only Live Twice_ is surprisingly enjoyable. He can relate to Bond, the pain over his loss, the rage, the craving for revenge. Of course it’s nothing a real spy would do, but that’s not the point. He settles back into the chair. The copy is a little more battered than he would like it to be, but nothing he was able to avoid. Carefully he opens it where he sees his bookmark poking out of the pages.

As always the photograph he uses captures his attention as he takes it out. It’s one of the pictures he took in Istanbul. They spent a day at the beach after completing the mission. Gaby’s halfhearted attempt to tackle Solo into the water failed spectacularly when the man just braced for the impact and caught Gaby in his arms, using her momentum to spin around with her. Illya really wanted to see the American go down like Illya did in Rome, but the picture turned out well either way. It’s a little blurry, but you can still make out his smile as he holds her up. Solo’s right arm and feet are cut off, but the sea in the background makes up for it. Somehow their energy is captured in this photograph. They look happy. In a strange way Illya is proud of taking this picture. In his career he made a lot of photographs, most of them more important than this one, but he’s never been proud of them. This is different. A lot is different since he joined U.N.C.L.E. and he’s not sure if it’s for better or worse. With a long exhale he places it on the small table in front of him and starts reading.

* * *

The next few days are uneventful. The close quarters grate a little on their nerves, but it’s not as bad as Illya imagined it. Solo continues visiting parties, Gaby continues tinkering with their equipment, Illya continues sneaking out whenever he can to search the city. Occasionally they pick up a tail, but they are never too hard to shake before they come home. Illya sleeps little, a few naps over the day, a few hours in the night if he’s too tired and manages to slip out of bed onto the floor without waking his partners. The brothels are a failure as well, but he checks in on those regularly. There still might turn up someone on their list. And if a few johns get rather violently mugged after roughing up the women working there, well it’s the seedier part of the city. They had it coming. He finished his book and got himself a new one. Another James Bond novel, but he liked the other one better. He thought about buying a new chessboard, but somehow he doesn't feel like playing in the last few days.

Illya just finished putting away the leftovers of their dinner and thinks about picking his book up again. Gaby left the loft earlier to meet up with one of their suppliers. Something about better trackers and longer ranges of their bugs. She won’t return for a few hours, so Solo and he are alone at the loft. Solo is in the bathroom to get ready for another evening out. In the few hours he’s alone he’s planning to sleep, since he has the bed to himself. Illya picks up his book from the table where he left it, shrugs off his shoes and lies down on top of the covers. He’s barely a few pages in, when Solo emerges from the bathroom dressed in his robe. Illya sees out of the corner of his eyes Solo crossing the room to stop in front of the dresser. The American takes out one of his suits and hangs it on the door before dropping his robe to the floor. Illya trains his eyes to stay on the book page, but it can’t seem to hold his gaze for long. 

Without his suits, Solo looks more like the top agent he is. Well defined muscles, scars from knives and one healed gunshot wound on his shoulder. Illya knows he’s been in the army, he fought a war, but he never asked about it. He’s not sure, if he should. He wonders if the people Solo picks up care about it and what he tells them.

Solo puts on his dress shirt and covers the marks. The way he dresses is somewhat at odds with the way he wears his clothes afterwards. As soon as the last brush with his hand is done, his suits are like a second skin, but now he looks more as if he’s putting on an armor.

The suit he chose for this evening is a classic one, clean cut and dark grey. Rather boring in Illya’s opinion, but he keeps his mouth shut. His own wardrobe isn’t any better. Just one of the few suits he owns he really likes to wear, but in his defense it’s hard to find clothes that fit him at all. Turtlenecks are practical. If he buys them a little too large so the sleeves are long enough for his arms, it doesn’t show at the neckline.

Solo puts on the vest, but leaves it open as he takes out two different ties, well aware that one of them belongs to Illya.

“Which one?”

“Silver.”

Illya closes his mouth and lowers his book. No use pretending to be reading anymore. He braces himself for the taunt, but Solo stays silent as he binds his tie and closes his vest over it. Solo’s hair still curls freely on his head as he dons his jacket and walks over to the tumblers of drinks he and Gaby assembled. “You want one, Peril?”

Illya shakes his head, as Solo pours himself a scotch. The American takes a small sip and settles in a chair, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hands. “Tonight I might get somewhere.”

“You want back up, Cowboy?”

Solo snorts. “For a little fun? No, thanks.”

Illya doesn’t say, that Solo never looks like he had fun when he comes home late at night, only tired.

The glass wanders to his lips again. “There are people watching my moves. I have to do something to cement my cover before they approach me properly, so you and Gaby better not wait up tonight.”

More like do someone. Illya nods despite the uneasy feeling in his stomach. It’s different from the women they occasionally see leaving Solo’s hotel suites. He doesn’t like idea that Solo lets somebody touch him just for his cover, even if the person is somewhat desirable. U.N.C.L.E. has a surprisingly strict policy about honey pot missions and Waverly won’t be happy about it, but it’s Solo’s decision in the end if he deems it necessary.

They sit in silence until Solo stands up and drains the rest of his scotch. With a small nod he disappears into the bathroom again. Illya gets up from the bed and grabs Solo’s glass to rinse it out. He just put it back next to the tray by the time Solo steps out again, his hair slicked back like usual. The American glances at Illya, then at the glass. “You know, a little clutter never killed anyone.”

Illya shrugs. “Not like I have something better to do.”

With a little headshake Solo grabs his coat and shoes. Illya counts three trackers in the ensemble. Good. If Solo’s not back in the morning, they will go after him. After a quick glance in the full body mirror next to the door he’s ready to go. Illya has to admit he looks good, although the smile he throws at his reflection is faked. Illya can’t help but wonder what else could be faked.

“Cowboy.”

He turns in Illya’s direction while brushing over his coat once. It shouldn’t be so hard to get the words out, still they are stuck in Illya’s throat. He swallows once and just forces them up. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

His partner frowns slightly in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

It’s really too late now to abort, but it doesn’t help with the uneasiness in Illya’s gut.

“When I found the first letter. That you enjoy it. I shouldn’t have said that.”

For a second Solo’s eyebrows go up in surprise, before he huffs out a dry laugh. “It’s not like you were totally off the mark. After my quip at the diner I think we’re even.”

Illya shakes his head. Solo made a joke, a rather bad one, but Illya wanted his words to hurt. It’s not the same. “No. It was not right.”

The silence between them is awkward. Solo stares at him with a rather blank expression, while Illya tries not to be the first of them to look away. After a few very long moments Solo clears his throat. “Well, how about we both watch our mouths from now on, so we never have to do this again?”

It still doesn’t sit right with Illya, but he gives a short nod anyway.

Solo wraps his new scarf around his neck and grabs the doorknob. “See you tomorrow then, Peril.” He throws him his usual smirk over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Illya rolls his eyes. 

“Will not be a problem. We won’t wait with breakfast.”

“I expected that.” He stops in the door, to look back at Illya. There is something strange in his eyes, but then he clears his throat and it’s gone again. “We should go out tomorrow. I heard a lot about that restaurant at the park. Very popular at the moment and they have private alcoves.”

Illya is a little surprised about the sudden change of topic. He’s not too eager to leave the loft, but somehow he doesn’t want to decline. “Sounds good.”

His partner throws a quick smile his way before he opens the door and steps out. “Alright. Tell Gaby to scrub the oil off her hands then. Sleep well, Peril.”

The door is closed again before Illya can form an answer. He doesn’t know if Solo’s words were deliberate or not, nevertheless Illya turns off the lights and makes his way over to the bed. His pajamas are waiting for him at the bottom of his shelf. He notes, that he’s been living here long enough not to need light to find them anymore. He changes silently into his pajama shorts and a not quite matching shirt and gets in-between the covers. With a silent sigh he turns to the side and draws his legs up so the blanket will cover all of him. The pillow smells slightly of Gaby’s new perfume and the pomade Solo uses to tame his hair. It takes only a few seconds to let the lack of sleep catch up to him.

* * *

Gaby comes home a few hours later. Illya wakes at the door opening, but eases back into a semi-conscious state at her quiet hello. He hums in response and turns away from the light falling in from the staircase. He needs to get up, make room, but maybe he can get a few more minutes out of this. The world around him is fuzzy and soft and moving more than necessary seems cruel.

The next time he’s awake enough to take in his surroundings is when the bed dips on the other side. Gaby. He knows there are reasons why he shouldn’t sleep too close to her, but he can’t remember any. Right now he just wants her near. He always wants her near, but in this moment he’s too tired to keep his distance. He knows he's weak, but it doesn't stop him from reaching out. His hand sneaks out of the covers until he finds a warm body. It’s easy to shuffle close to her, wrapping himself around her. Gaby lets out a surprised little sound but her fingers find his hand around her middle. Her hand is so warm compared to his as she rests it on top, keeping him there. Her silent approval makes Illya relax further. She fits perfectly against him, her back to his front, her head pillowed on his arm and tucked under his chin. He is a little concerned about crushing Gaby, but she doesn’t protest and her hand still covers his.

Her voice is too soft to pull him into wakefulness again. “Träum süß, Illya.”

He knows the words, but he’s too sleepy to make much sense of them, so he just presses his lips on the crown of her head and drops off.

* * *

Illya wakes up to Gaby still sleeping soundly in his arms. For a second he freezes, but Gaby breathes softly against him and he’s more comfortable than he’s been in weeks. Nothing happened last night, he didn't lash out, didn't even dream anything. Relief spreads through him. He takes a deep breath to get his body to loosen up again. He decides to close his eyes and fake sleeping a little longer. Maybe later he should apologize to Gaby for grabbing her. He keeps his eyes shut until the lock of the front door turns.

Solo is not particularly quiet when he walks in, which means that it’s later than Illya thought. Carefully he disentangles himself from Gaby who grumbles a little and buries herself deeper under the blankets. Solo raises an amused eyebrow at them, as he shrugs off his coat. There is a faint mark on his cheek, other than that he seems tired, but fine. Solo takes one set of fresh clothes and disappears into the bathroom. Only seconds later the shower is running. Out of the corner of his eyes Illya sees Gaby sit up in the bed. “He spent the night elsewhere?”

“Mission.”

Gaby only hums, but he can hear she doesn’t like it, either. She lets herself fall back into the cushions.

Illya takes a look into the cupboards and starts breakfast with brewing tea. He lacks both the skill and the patience to cook like Solo, but he’s better than Gaby. Scrambling a few eggs and assembling sandwiches should be enough for today though. He’s long time finished with everything, when Solo stumbles out of the bathroom, his robe over his sleeping clothes. He eyes the food on the table although he stays where he is. “I thought you said that you wouldn’t wait.”

Illya scoffs as he pointedly picks up his sandwich and sits down at the small table. Solo pads over to the table and sits down at the opposite of him. His face is blank as he looks down at his plate, but doesn’t say anything. Instead of starting to eat he props up one elbow to rest his head on his hand. He rubs his eyes before staring down at his food again. “Your cooking lacks of love, you know that Peril? And coffee. I don’t know which is worse.”

“Eat it or go to bed without breakfast.”

Gaby’s head appears out of the mountain of pillows. “Breakfast?”

Solo picks at his scrambled eggs and makes a face. “If one wants to call it that.”

Illya shoots a not-so small glare across the table while Gaby stretches and gets out of bed. “Be nice or I’ll send you both to bed without it.”

A small sliver of his usual smirk appears on Solo’s face. “There are worse fates. At least Peril doesn’t snore.”

Illya bites back his reply and ignores him. He’s so fixated on his plate, that he doesn’t notice Gaby before she sets her own plate down next to his. Since there are no other chairs left, Illya pushes a little back from the table to get up for her. What he doesn’t expect is Gaby using this moment to simply slip between him and the table to sit down in his lap. For a second Illya’s brain comes up blank how to react to that, but as neither Gaby nor Solo acknowledge it in any way, he decides not to react at all. Gaby is small enough that he can look comfortably over her shoulder and her weight doesn’t bother him in the slightest, so he just continues eating. He lets her steal his eggs, but takes one of her sandwiches in retribution. They eat in relative silence. Nobody wants to bring up the question, what exactly Solo did and if he was successful. Solo leaves half of his food on his plate by the time they’re finished, but Illya doesn’t take it personally. Especially not when Solo heads for their medical kit and swallows a painkiller dry. Gaby fetches him a glass of water which he accepts with a small thank you. “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head once. “I’m fine, just a headache.” The way he swallows twice in quick succession points to nausea as well, but Illya doesn’t bring it up. Gaby doesn’t seem too convinced either, but nods. “Alright. I handle wash up. I’ll need the table after that. Is that fine with you, Illya?”

“Yes.”

He watches Solo refill his glass with water and take it to the bedside table. He leaves the robe on as he lies down and spreads the blankets over him. With a sigh he leans back and buries his head in the pillows, facing them. 

Despite Gaby’s protest Illya helps her cleaning everything up. After that she takes out her new equipment and starts setting up shop on the table. Illya picks up his book from where he left it yesterday. Out of habit he takes a few steps over to the bed, where he usually settles down in the mornings with nothing to do, but stops. Solo is sprawled out all over the mattress. 

Before he can turn around, Solo raises his head a little, watches him sleepily for a second, then shuffles over to the other side. Illya stays where he is, observing his partner curiously. Solo’s face is still turned towards him, as he blinks an eye open. 

“I moved, Peril. Don’t let it be for nothing.”

Illya hesitates for another moment, then carefully climbs in next to Solo, sitting up against the headboard. 

His partner’s eyes are still closed, as he rolls over. His head rests mere inches from Illya’s hip now. He could have been asleep again already if not for the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Read to me?”

Illya rolls his eyes, although Solo can’t see it. “In your dreams, Cowboy.”

Solo hums, but in a way that makes Illya question if he understood what he said. His muscles tense shortly, as if he wanted to roll away again, but didn’t quite make it. His words are more a sleepy mumble, most of the words too slurred to understand. 

“Wake me… few hours… reserved table.”

Illya guesses it’s about the restaurant Solo mentioned last evening. He shakes his head with an amused huff. How Solo managed to get a reservation in that time is probably nothing he wants to know.

He catches Gaby smiling at them, before she pretends to ponder over the transmitters in front of her. Surprisingly Illya can’t bring himself to be irritated or embarrassed. He opens his book and starts reading while he absently listens to Solo’s breaths even out. 

Later they decide to cancel the reservation and stay home in the evening, but no one seems to mind much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Träum süß" is German for "Sweet dreams" (literally "dream sweetly")
> 
> You Only Live Twice was actually published in March 1964, so the book is about three months too early in this fic.


	6. Chapter 6

He walks through the rooms his little Falcon left so suddenly behind. It wasn’t that hard to rent the suite just a few minutes after he left. Buying off the cleaning crew was no harder, so the rooms waited undisturbed for him to explore. He knew leaving the presents like that would provoke reaction. It makes the chase better this way. His men lost the three of them in the streets, which is more than inconvenient, but they haven’t left the city. He’s got eyes on all the exits and they haven’t been spotted. They are still here and they can’t hide forever. His reach is too wide for them to slip through his fingers for long. It’s been almost a week since they lost track. Occasionally one of them turns up on the streets or at the market, but they are more careful to hide their location. None of his employees managed to follow them for long.

He’s patient though. The message had to be sent and the opportunity was there when the Falcon slipped out after his little friends left. He wants his Falcon to know that he’s coming for him and that there is nothing he can do about it. 

The rooms are rather empty, although they left a few things behind. He will have them collected and transferred to his place. He wants his Falcon to be comfortable in his new home. A few personal things wouldn’t do any harm. His chess board is already set up.

He leans in the door of the bedroom and lets his gaze wander. The bed is made, but the sheets are rumpled. It’s rather small for such a tall man as his Falcon is. He walks over and sits down at the edge of it, one of his hands stroking over the pillow. He can imagine his Falcon lying here, his limbs spread out and dangling off the edges. Or maybe he curls up on his side to fit all of him in. Something to look forward to finding out for sure. 

Shortly he wonders if he ever brought anyone up here. How unlikely it might be, the thought of anyone else touching what is his makes him want to shoot everyone in the building. He placates himself with the knowledge that nothing happened in this bed, at least not since they caught his attention. The surveillance didn’t pick up anything. Before then his little Falcon couldn’t know, that he’s doing something wrong after all. Still he’s going to check the suite of the Raven and the Paradise Bird, if they have been up to something. It’s obvious in their stares, in their seemingly casual touches. They want him and, despite their prettiness, they can’t have him. If they beg really nicely, he may allow them to play with his Falcon when he can spare the time to watch over them.

He walks over to the window and looks up to the building on the opposite street. Even though he exactly knows, where his perch is located, he can’t make out anything special. He’s sure they didn’t notice it. If they did, they would have checked the place by now.

He doesn’t know who they are, but his little birds are not what they pretend to be. The nightly strolls of the Falcon has only been one thing to tip him off. He’s pretty sure, that he’s the one that broke into all the warehouses. On the footage he saw a lot of tech and the way they swept everything when they packed up makes him think that they are professionals. They are looking for something, he just doesn’t know what. 

What he knows, is that they make themselves more interesting and desirable with every move they make. It’s been so long since he was really challenged. Nothing like the thrill of a good hunt, even more with such beautiful prizes. The more they make him wait, the more he wants them. All of them to be honest, but he’s realistic. One step at a time. He’d rather enjoy one bird than chasing all three of them and turning up empty handed.

There is a knock on the door. He tries to keep his annoyance at bay, as he leaves the bedroom and he calls them in. 

He shuts the door behind him as one of his scouts enters the suite, holding a dossier. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a new potential client, sir. Local.” He waves the man over and takes the dossier out of his hands. Local deals need special attention, if they want to stay in business. The trail back to them is shorter than they would like if they sell in this area.

He sits down in the armchair with the dossier in his hands. There is the sound of paper crumpling. He dismisses his employee with a hand wave and places the dossier on the table in front of him. When he hears the door close, he lets out a sigh and reaches between the cushions. A pity that they didn’t find this particular message. He pulls out the envelope and stops in his motion. It’s opened. There are two additional cuts so he can unfold it like a sheet of paper. The message is handwritten, the letters even but the dips in the paper reveal the anger in the creator.

_You don’t like to share? That’s fine. We neither._

He doesn’t even try to fight off the grin spreading on his face. This is going to be more fun than he previously thought. He bets the Paradise Bird left the note without telling her friends. For such a small little thing she’s pretty fierce. He likes her. They really don’t make it easy for him to stick to his choice.

With care he folds the note and puts it in his inside pocket. Work comes first, unfortunately. The dossier is rather boring to read, some rich newly-wed looking for distraction from his wife. His mind drifts off to his plans with his Falcon and how he tries to find them again, until he flips to the last page. It’s a photograph of a party, a seemingly random crowd with drinks in their hands and dressed in the finest suits. One man on the left side is circled. 

And just like that the dossier is even more interesting than the whole suite downstairs he planned to rummage through. 

He whistles once. The door of the suite opens instantly. “Sir?”

With a smile he gets up again. “I’ll handle this one personally. Get the car. I need to make a few preparations.” 

He takes the photograph out of the dossier and slides it in his pocket with the message to look at it later in detail. 

It seems like everybody’s found what they’ve been looking for.


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon opens the door to the loft and is greeted by music playing over the sound of his partners arguing. Despite his exhaustion it makes the corners of his mouth twitch. If anyone told him he would like to share his loft or any of his other places with other agents, he would have laughed in their face, but again, U.N.C.L.E. proves him wrong. He sneaks his way in with as little sound as possible. 

The sight of Gaby in her ugliest pajamas forcing Illya to hobble from side to side to her new record is worth more than every painting Napoleon ever stole. His long limbs move awkwardly under Gaby's instruction and completely off beat. Napoleon wishes to have a camera at hand or maybe a whole film crew, but since he doesn't he placates himself with watching and committing this scene to his memory.

Gaby makes Peril raise his arm to twirl under it and turn them around. Illya's frame might have been enough to conceal Napoleon standing in the door, but Gaby's for sure isn't. Illya and Napoleon's eyes meet and the Russian stops dead.

Napoleon doesn't even try to hide his amusement as he hangs up his coat. “Maybe you should start with standard dance, Gaby.”

Gaby turns around with a small pirouette and winks at him. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Illya attempts a glare over her head, but the effect is eliminated by the faint splash of red on his cheeks. How a six foot five tall trained killer can look that adorably awkward is totally beyond Napoleon. “You could take my place if you're so excited about dancing Cowboy.”

“Maybe another time. I have news.”

It is remarkable how they switch from casual to professional, all banter forgotten and wiped off their faces. Solo claims one of the chairs after getting himself a glass of water. He drank enough this evening. Illya leaves the other chair for Gaby and stays standing upright. Napoleon takes a sip and starts to rub his neck. 

“Someone approached me tonight to arrange a meeting with some 'businessman' to find me a 'pet'. I'm fairly sure he took a picture of me earlier that week. So either he's our link or we stumbled over an equally sick branch of society.” 

He tries not to think about the night he spent humiliating an unfortunate prostitute in front of the obvious see-through mirror. He more than deserved the slap across his face on his way out. More than slipping her three times the money they agreed on and the gold chain he lifted earlier was too risky at the time. His skin starts to itch again. He doubts another shower will help. He takes another sip of water to ease his suddenly dry throat.

“So, tomorrow night I'll meet hopefully our best lead at the club at the bridge, ten o'clock sharp.”

Illya crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I'll go with you.”

Gaby nods. “I want to try out my new equipment, so I'm on support.”

It's probably a little over the top for a simple meeting, but Napoleon understands that his partners are eager to work after sitting on their hands for the last two weeks. “Alright. It's probably too risky to slip him a tracker, but he won't be there alone and chances are good that a few other people are his customers as well.”

“So we detect all people involved and the Cowboy sees to arranging a follow-up meeting.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Napoleon gets up from the chair. “Details tomorrow then. I don't know about you, but I'm beat.” 

Gaby looks rather unimpressed, but goes to turn off the music. With a thankful nod Napoleon disappears into the bathroom. He's too tired to take a shower, so he just hangs up his suit and slips on his sleeping clothes. Gaby is already in bed by the time he comes out, Illya is lounging in one of the chairs with yet another book in his hands. Napoleon can't help but smirk. A Russian spy reading James Bond novels. Maybe he should get him a new chess set. He saw a nice one at the antiques dealer at the corner of the market place.

“Peril?”

The Russian turns a page. “Get in bed, Cowboy.”

For a second Napoleon stares at his partner, but complies. He thought after he found him curled around Gaby, he would have gotten over the incident, but Napoleon won't push it. As long as he stays functional, he doesn't have the right to call him out on it. Gaby will probably be faster than Napoleon anyway. He turns out the lights except the small lamp next to Illya's reading form.

Gaby already buried herself under the blankets when Napoleon joins her. Since Illya chose not to go with them, Napoleon takes the chance to stretch out on the other side. The remaining light is strong enough to leave a little hint of color behind closed eyelids, but Napoleon doesn't mind.

It seems only a second has passed when something cold on his shoulder disrupts his sleep.

“Move over.”

Napoleon recognizes Peril's voice, but can't really grasp the meaning of his words. Still all it takes are cold fingers on his neck to make him shrink back to the middle of the bed. It's really not fair that Illya's hands have the power of a Siberian winter night when the rest of him is quite comfortably warm. He hears Illya scoff, so maybe he said that aloud or Illya is still not content with the space left for him. Either way Napoleon could care less, because Peril withdraws his hand and leaves him alone. 

The mattress dips beside him when Illya gets in. This actually makes Napoleon’s eyes flutter open. It's too dark in the loft to really see anything, but there is definitely one Russian giant lying next to him. He watches the dark shape carefully shift around so he's lying on his side, facing away from Napoleon, and not stiff on his back. He’s not pretending. Illya is really trying to sleep.

Since Napoleon is more than half asleep himself he’s not really to blame if he moves around a little, so that his shoulder maybe ends up pressed against Illya’s back. Considering the fact that he’s used to way more space as well, it's totally an accident, when his foot pushes under Gaby's blanket to rest against hers. Gaby seems to be just in the same state as Napoleon, because she casually shifts around until her arm is thrown around Napoleon's middle. Without looking too closely at his actions Napoleon lets out a suspiciously content sigh and falls back asleep.

* * *

“Do you hear me, Gaby?”

Gaby gives him a thumbs-up from where she sits at the table with her headphones on. She pulls them off and starts to gather her things. Napoleon steps in front of the mirror. The bug is invisible under the collar of his dress shirt. He takes another deep breath and puts his coat on. Gaby is ready in a minute with a suitcase full of the tech she worked on all week and a thick comforter. Together they lock up the loft and get into their car. 

The club isn’t too far away, so they only need a few minutes to drive there. Gaby pulls into an inconspicuous slot at the side of the street and kills the engine. Napoleon reaches back to pull the thick comforter to the front seat and drapes it over Gaby. She chuckles lightly as Napoleon moves to tuck her in as tightly as possible, before disposing her new gear on her. Gaby reaches for his shoulder, when he opens his door and smiles up at him. “Good luck.”

Napoleon returns it before he really decides to move a muscle. “Let’s hope I won’t need it.” He covers her hand with his and squeezes it slightly, then he leaves her in the car.

The night air is bitingly cold, so Napoleon hurries towards the club. The man taking his coat greets him by his false name, courtesy of Peril’s latest reading obsession, as he enters the building. He checks his watch. Little over half an hour to the scheduled meeting. Time enough to get him a drink. He nods to a few familiar faces in the crowd as he heads over to the bar. The barkeeper recognizes him. All Napoleon has to do is raise a finger to order a double scotch. When his drink arrives he turns around to lean with his back against the bar and lets his gaze wander. 

It’s not hard to spot Illya leaning against the wall, a glass of red wine in his hands, looking politely bored like the rest of the patrons. He’s gazing at the passing men with disinterest while he takes small sips of his drink. He blends in far better than Napoleon would have guessed, using his unapproachableness as his cover. Someone outside the crowd is not that remarkable, if no one actually wants to include them. Oleg was a fool for trying to train him into an attack dog and nothing more. 

Illya wears the suit with the black dress shirt, which he chose on the first night in Rome. Napoleon will never admit it aloud, but the outfit suits him perfectly, the dark colors setting off his pale skin and bring out his eyes. Napoleon lets himself look a bit, nothing unusual if someone new enters this kind of establishment, before turning his attention back to the door. 

He doesn’t have to wait for long. Palmer, one of the men he spent the last few evenings with, arrives at the club in company of a stranger. At least a stranger to Napoleon, because he can make out quite a handful people turning in their direction and greeting the man with respectful nods. Napoleon lets them join him at the bar. Palmer grins at him in a quite unnerving manner, but Napoleon got used to it over the last few days. “Mr. Fleming, good to see you this fine evening.” 

Napoleon forces himself to smile. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Peril making his way over to the bar as well. The stranger extends his hand to shake.

“Indeed, Mr. Fleming, I heard quite a lot about you.” Napoleon doesn’t hesitate to take it. He meets the new man’s gaze with confidence, which wavers slightly at the gaze he receives in return. Something about his expression is unsettling, but Napoleon didn’t really expect anything else from someone who makes his fortune selling human beings like cattle. The stranger is about the same height as him, but a few years older, maybe in his early forties. The suit he wears is obviously tailored and of high quality. His dark hair is still full, but streaks of grey line the sides of his face. If it wasn’t for the odd glint in his eyes one could call him handsome.  
“If I may introduce myself, Richard Avery.”

Illya arrives at the bar a few feet away, near enough to eavesdrop, but not to draw attention. He orders himself another drink, when Avery raises his hand in the direction of the bartender. Instantly the glass of wine is neglected to get Avery’s order. It’s quite impressive how Avery seems to own the whole place. Now that Napoleon thinks of it, maybe he does indeed. 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Avery.”

“Me, too Mr. Fleming.” He raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip without lifting his gaze once. It’s the kind of staring that makes Napoleon itch, but he refuses to show it. His nerves been on the edge these last days, but he won’t mess this up now. He can’t wait for it to be over, so that they can leave this city behind already. 

“So I came to believe you could help me with my little problem?”

Avery smirks. “That depends on what kind of problem that is.”

Napoleon mirrors his expression. “Oh it’s nothing special. I guess any man with certain tastes has it.”

The man nods thoughtfully. “That’s quite right.” He takes a slow sip of his drink. “Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere else.” 

Palmer nods and points discretely in the direction of one of the rooms marked as staff. Napoleon kept an eye on the door since he first put his foot in this club. He never saw anyone walk in or out through that door, so chances are good that there’s some kind of office behind it. Palmer is the first one to leave the bar, Napoleon und Avery following him a few steps behind. 

Palmer produces a set of keys and unlocks the door. Napoleon is not disappointed, when they step in. 

The room is less an office and more a lounge with that professional flair of a highly lucrative business. There are two sleek black leather couches around a flat table made of glass. The walls are white and hung with colorless paintings of landscapes. There’s one for every wall, a forest, a coast and the view from a mountaintop. 

Avery claims one of the couches and offers Napoleon the other one with a wave if his hand. “Please, Mr. Fleming, makeyourself comfortable.”

Napoleon makes the corners of his mouth quirk up as he takes his seat. He takes a long drag from his glass and sets it down on the table in front of him. “So Mr. Avery, what do you have in mind?”

Again he gives Napoleon that uncomfortable stare. It’s remarkable truly. Napoleon thought that he lost that sort of feeling years ago. 

“Well, Mr. Fleming, I’m in possession of quite a few pieces that could ease your mind.” He leans back in the cushions and lets his gaze wander down probingly. “I only wonder, if it’s a good idea to trust you with one of those pieces. Their nature is quite… delicate.”

“So you are looking for something to bind me to my word.”

That evokes a small laugh out of the other man. The second he’s done, his stare is calculating again. “In fact, that is quite true, but please don’t take it personally Mr. Fleming. Trust is nothing I can afford easily, some leverage is way more comforting.”

Napoleon smiles in return. “I can assure you, Mr. Avery, I’m quite familiar with this kind of business. We share our interest in handling this discretely.”

Anticipating the next questions Napoleon goes through all his faked back story and which of the details are easy for Avery to verify with the forged papers in place. 

Avery hums. “So if I may be willing to send you discretely a little present, how are you planning to keep it that way?”

Properties, land, houses, hiding places drifting through Napoleon’s head in a blink of an eye. “I own a country home, no neighbors, hand-picked staff.”

Avery nods, but doesn’t look very impressed. “Your wife will let you go there without her?”

Napoleon shows off a cruel smirk. “Oh I doubt, that she will accompany me much longer. Such a mouthy creature, something is bound to happen living in a city like this with an attitude like that.”

There’s no doubt, that this conversation is recorded somehow. While he’s sure Avery will just try to make him disappear if he thinks that Napoleon sold him out, this should provide enough security for them to let him in, at least he hopes so. He’s not so sure, if he has to repeat his performance at the brothel, that he can get it up. 

Avery smiles at him almost pleased. “Dangerous times, truly.” He nods imperceptibly at Palmer, who was standing behind Napoleon the whole time, probably with one hand at his gun. “So, Mr. Fleming, would you like a piece of our stock or maybe order something especially for you?”

Napoleon raises his eyebrows in honest surprise. “You take orders?”

“Of course, it’s our specialty. You tell us what you’re looking for and we’ll find it for you.” 

That explains the random pattern in which the victims were taken. Different people, different tastes. Napoleon would like to throw up right now, even more so when he forces himself to smile in return. 

“That’s tempting, but I’m afraid I’m more the kind of man that has to see something before he gets his wallet out. I don’t want you to waste your precious time with hunting down something I won’t take with me in the end.”

Avery leans a little back and folds his hands in his lap. “If this is about changing tastes, it is no problem. We’ll handle disposal as well.”

Napoleon knows too well how disposal looks like in this case. He never thought he would wish back the days when he was tracking down dirty bombs, but here he is. 

“That will probably come in handy someday.” He takes a sip of the glass he brought. The scotch tastes somehow worse than before. “Still I think having a look at your stock would be the best idea.”

Somehow that makes Avery smile even broader. “Alright, but maybe we could narrow that field down with some basic attributes, don’t you think?”

Napoleon’s expression doesn’t waver once when they go through his ‘preferences’. He tries to stay as vague as possible without losing his credibility. Women over men, but exceptions can be made, not too old, not too young and so on. Napoleon doesn’t listen too hard to what comes out of his mouth, wondering if he describes people he knows. Avery seems rather satisfied with his answers. He even makes a few suggestions, which Napoleon takes or leaves randomly. At one point Napoleon even manages to laugh at some crude joke Palmer throws in from behind him. His insides crawl, but his performance is impeccable. 

The second Avery checks his watch twice within two minutes, he knows they are done. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fleming, but I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere. I’m sure we will find something that fits you.” Napoleon hides his relief perfectly with a sly grin. “I dare hope so, Mr. Avery.” They both stand up. Avery pulls a small card from his breast pocket and hands it to Napoleon. “Give me a call when you’re free for a tour.”

Napoleon glances shortly at the card. It’s a rather classical design, name, address and a number. He carefully pockets it. “I will.” He extends his hand for a final handshake, when he notices them. Avery’s cuff links shimmer once, when the man raises his hand to grasp his. They’re made of silver, polished and in the distinct shape of a feather. The feather he saw burned into skin on too many photographs. Napoleon doesn’t let his gaze linger and looks up when they shake hands. He bids them goodbye and leaves the room. 

The club is more crowded than before. He leaves no time to do anything other than ordering another drink. The few men next to him are slightly familiar, so he makes some light conversation while he scans the crowd. After ten minutes and a lot too much meaningless chatter he couldn’t care less about, he still hasn’t spotted Illya. How hard could it be to find a six thousand feet tall Russian? But Illya is nowhere to be seen. He excuses himself to the restroom. When he opens the door though, all the stalls are empty, only one unknown man washing his hands. He casually does his business not to cause suspicion, before returning to the bar. Maybe he can’t see him, because he sat down, but it turns out there are only so many seats and none of them is occupied by Illya. It’s not like Peril to just abandon his position. Napoleon doesn’t even bother to finish his drink before he turns to leave the establishment. 

The night is just as cold as he remembered it. Snow is falling and starts to cover the sidewalk and streets. The ground is frosted, so it doesn’t melt. They should get home, before the streets are too slippery. Maybe Illya waits at their car already and listens to Gaby complaining about them taking too long. 

Napoleon starts to walk faster into the direction of their vehicle and passes a back alley, when he hears a muffled groan. He comes to stop after a few steps with a frown and listens more closely. Someone is breathing heavily, but not in the fun way judging by the edge to it. He takes a peek into it and hears his own breath catch. There are two men lying on the ground, one of them with his shoulder obviously dislocated or broken, but that’s not what catches Napoleon’s eye. 

Illya leans against a dirty wall behind them, his head buried in his hands, slightly swaying on his feet. He doesn’t wear his coat and his collar is torn. The already dying joke about back alley encounters on Napoleon’s lips takes its final breath when Illya tries to push himself off the wall and loses his balance instantly.

Quickly Napoleon steps over the men on the ground to get to his partner. Napoleon reaches for his arm, ready to slip under Illya’s shoulder, when Illya launches at him. Napoleon is surprised by the force behind the attack, but Illya’s aim is off, so the punch probably meant for his face just scrapes over his shoulder. It’s more a reflex than anything, that Napoleon grabs his partner's arm and twists him into a loose choke hold. Illya struggles against it, but can’t seem to break out of it, which is the final indication that something is horribly wrong. 

“Illya stop it.” A slurred curse in Russian is his only answer and a halfhearted elbow in his stomach. Napoleon tightens his hold a little with gritted teeth. “Peril, it’s me, Solo, stop.”

After a second his words seem to sink in and Illya goes slack. This time Napoleon tightens his grip, so that they remain standing. Carefully he maneuvers Illya around so he’s leaning against the wall again. One hand remains at his partners side, so he can catch him should he slip, the other one finds the side of Peril’s face holding his head up. Illya’s eyelids flutter and he seems to need a few tries to focus on Napoleon’s face. “Cowboy?” His accent is even thicker than usual, his voice slow. Napoleon nods. “Yeah it’s me. What happened to you?”

Illya screws his eyes shut and shakes his head, with makes him sway a little to the side. “Don’t know.” 

Napoleon quickly scans him for injuries or anything that could explain his condition, but he finds nothing. “Who are these men?”

His partner slurs something and rests his head back against the wall. Napoleon shakes his shoulder slightly, but it only manages to make Illya’s head roll around. “Peril, what the hell happened?” Illya closes his eyes and frowns in concentration. “I was not feeling good. They followed me out. Grabbed me.” His eyes fly suddenly open and meet Napoleon’s, the piercing blue clouded and miserable. “I didn’t let them.”

An unexpected weight settles in Napoleon’s gut. He squeezes Illya’s shoulder reassuringly. “That’s good, Peril.”

Illya’s eyes still hold that expression for a second, as if he’s not sure Napoleon means it, before they fall shut again. “I don’t feel good.”

No kidding. If Napoleon wasn’t busy holding his partner upright, he would freak out by now. Someone must have slipped him something, but that’s impossible. Napoleon has watched Illya countless times on missions. He never accepts anything that’s even mildly dubious, never letting go of anything he plans to consume even for a second. He even avoids being the first to drink or eat at a buffet. Napoleon is careful enough, especially since Rome, Illya is bordering on paranoid.

Napoleon feels a quick buzzing against his wrist, three times in quick succession. Only then he remembers the little gadget, which Gaby attached to his watch. Bless Gaby and her tinkering. “Gaby is on her way to pick us up.”

Illya lifts his head a little. “Gaby?”

“Yes, you remember her new toys? She heard everything. She knows where we are. The car is a few streets down from here. She’s going to be here soon.” 

The Russian nods weakly. A gush of wind races through the alley and makes him shiver violently. Cursing himself inwardly for forgetting the fact that his partner is out with only a dress shirt and a suit jacket in freaking December for God knows how long, Napoleon opens his coat one handed and steps in close. Illya feels icy against his chest even through the rest of his layers as Napoleon tries to drape the ends around the Russian. He braces himself for an argument or a shove, but he only gets another shiver before Illya lowers his head on Napoleon’s shoulder. In equal parts surprised and worried, Napoleon raises a hand and carefully sinks it into Illya’s hair.

“It’s going to be alright, Peril.” 

He can feel Illya twitch at that, but otherwise he stays silent. After a few seconds he starts to shiver again, but the shaking won’t stop this time. Napoleon is not sure, if it’s because he’s warming up from the brink of freezing to death or because his body finally understands how cold it is. He dislikes both options.

When their new car pulls up a the end of the alley, Napoleon gets almost lightheaded with relief. He hooks a hand under Illya’s arm and starts to make his way out of the alley. Illya stumbles along at his side, but stays pliant.

Gaby jumps out of the car the second the wheels stop turning and runs towards them. One look at Illya makes her expression go blank. 

“Illya?”

Illya raises his head at the sound of her voice, her name on his lips, but he’s shaking too badly by now for it to be recognizable. 

With no further hesitation, Gaby slips under Illya’s shoulder on his other side. Together they make it to the car. 

Gaby goes in behind the wheel, while Napoleon opens the door to the backseats. He lowers Illya down carefully, the Russian’s hands still clawing at his coat. The interior of the car is warm enough, so Napoleon takes it off and drapes it over his partner. After a second thought, he snatches the thick comforter from the passenger seat and piles it on top of Illya as well. He closes the door on Illya’s side and hurries around the car, taking the other seat in the back to keep an eye on his partner. The second all doors are closed, Gaby takes off. 

Illya’s head rolls around, constantly banging against the glass, so Napoleon lays an arm around him and draws him over to him. Illya lets himself be arranged without protest.

His head is heavy on Napoleon’s shoulder, but it’s not uncomfortable, at least not physically. The way his partner leans into the touch is nice on some level, but it leaves a sick feeling in Napoleon’s stomach. He can’t help but think, that Illya would never let Napoleon touch him like that without a punch in the face or at least a glare. It’s not like Napoleon is taking advantage of Illya by keeping him from getting a bump on his forehead, but he gets the impression that he could if he wanted. He placates himself with the thought of the men Illya defeated in the alley, but he has no idea when the drugs in his system took full effect.

Gaby throws a glance back at them through the rearview mirror. 

“What happened?”

Napoleon shakes his head. “I have no idea.” He wasn’t that long in the backroom with Avery and Palmer. It was the first time Illya was with him, so if his cover is blown, then Napoleon’s should be as well, but everything went fine for Napoleon. Who would randomly target someone who looks like he could snap your neck without breaking sweat?

Napoleon didn’t notice that he said that aloud until he hears Gaby’s voice a second later. 

“Birdbrain.”

Napoleon needs a moment to get who she’s referring to. “No way.”

“Who else?”

He’s already opened his mouth, but he can’t come up with another possibility. They’ve been careful since they moved to the loft. Tonight was the first night that Illya lingered anywhere longer than a few minutes. 

“But how would they know?”

Gaby shrugs. “Just like they knew how they could get into his hotel room.”

Napoleon curses softly.

They stay silent for the rest of the ride. There are not many other cars on the street and they aren’t being followed, so they take the fastest way home. 

Getting Illya out of the car is a feat. He’s even more uncoordinated than before and first right out refuses to leave the car and go out into the cold. For what feels like the hundredth time this evening Napoleon thanks whatever powers there may be for Gaby’s existence, when she manages to coax him out.

They flank Illya again and support the weight, which his legs can’t seem to bear anymore. It takes ages to climb up the stairs. Napoleon fumbles with his keys one handed when Illya suddenly tenses.

“Let go.”

Gaby motions Napoleon to hurry, before turning to Illya.

“We’re almost there.”

Illya shakes his head. 

“Let go.”

Napoleon opens the door just in time for Illya to shoot forwards. He manages three steps on his own before sinking to his knees and throwing up on the floor.

Gaby is at his side in an instant, her hand rubbing small circles on his back. Napoleon shuts the door and locks it before joining them. Illya’s breath comes in short, his eyes are squeezed shut as his insides cramp up again and again. 

When there is nothing left in him he dry heaves a couple of times, then his arms give out. Gaby is quick to yank him in her direction, so he doesn’t fall into his own vomit. Together they somehow get him to his feet and sit him down on the bed. He barely stays upright on his own. Napoleon considers calling an ambulance, but if this happened when they left him alone for barely two hours, he won’t risk leaving him in the hospital unprotected for a whole night. Neither Gaby’s nor his own faked identity justify staying with him all around the clock. If the men planned to take him with them, they wouldn’t give him an overdose, or at least he hopes so.

There are small stains of vomit on his clothes, so they can’t really leave Illya in them. Gaby goes to fetch a glass of water and a towel, while Napoleon sits down next to him.

“Peril?”

No response.

“Peril please, look at me.” He carefully places a hand on the side of the man’s head and lifts it up. After a couple of tries Illya blinks his eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, the usual icy blue irises reduced to small rings. 

“I’m going to undress you. Is that alright?”

“Tired.”

Napoleon nods encouragingly. 

“I know, but you can’t sleep like that.”

Illya frowns a little and blinks a couple of times, before closing his eyes again. Napoleon gets the feeling, that he can’t hope to get an actual answer. With a sigh Napoleon starts to loosen Illya’s tie. 

Gaby joins him again on the bed with the water and damp towel. She’s whispering to Illya in German, while she wipes down his face. He hums at something she said, which causes her to lift the glass to his lips. About half of the water runs down the corners of his mouth, but Gaby is quick to catch it with the towel. Illya manages a few small sips, which seem to stay in, while Napoleon gets to work on Illya’s now ruined suit. The jacket comes off without any resistance. Illya mumbles something, sounding rather unhappy, as Napoleon starts unbuttoning his shirt, but he doesn’t try to fight him. When it comes off he shivers in his undershirt, but he stops immediately when Gaby throws her arms around him and pulls him close. She rubs over his shoulders to chase the cold away and gives Napoleon a small nod to continue. 

Napoleon kneels down in front of them and removes Illya’s shoes and socks. Before reaching up to his belt he raises his head again, just for a quick check in. His hands stop in midair. Illya’s eyes are open again and he’s watching Napoleon, but there is no hint of the drugged confusion anymore, not even the weariness. His eyes are just dead. If Napoleon had a bad feeling before, it’s nothing compared to the pit in his stomach now. His fingers feel numb, as they proceed. He hurries to pull the suit pants down without touching Illya directly. 

Gaby whispers something in Illya’s ear again and Illya hums, his eyes still oddly vacant. Slowly she withdraws and guides his upper body back onto the bed. After a little tucking and nudging she makes him draw his legs up after him and lie on his side. She pulls the blanket over him and runs her hand over his back and through his hair. Illya finally closes his eyes. 

He lies still for a while and it seems like he’s drifted off, when he opens his mouth.

“Mikhail here yet?”

Napoleon’s blood runs cold. He heard Illya saying that name just once and it was bad enough without him being drugged out of his mind. Gaby throws him a questioning glance, but remains silent. Napoleon swallows the lump in his throat, before he’s able to say something. 

“He won’t come, I promise.”

Illya shakes his head against the pillow, his eyebrows drawn together. “Always comes.” There is a weariness in his voice that sounds different from the exhaustion and the effects of the drug. He presses his face further into the pillow.

“Go away.” 

Gaby frowns down at him, but her hand doesn’t stop moving up and down. Illya twists away from her and flops on his back. 

“Go away. Don’t want you here.” He kicks the blanket away. Gaby draws back a little. Muttering unintelligibly in Russian, he tries to get up, but his legs just flail around. With every second passing he looks more distressed by it. Gaby tries to extend her hand again, but Illya shrinks back from the touch. Still she stays where she is, her voice doesn’t betray the alarm on her face.

“We won’t let him get you.”

Illya shakes his head vehemently. 

“You can’t stop him.” The conviction and helplessness in his voice cut deep.

He kicks out again, but there is nothing there. At least nothing they can see. There is a ghost in the room, invisible to Gaby and Napoleon. Just a memory, but carved deeper in Illya’s body than any scar ever could be, still easily torn open, always tender to the touch. Napoleon refuses to let it cut any deeper.

“Then I’ll steal you back.”

Mercifully Illya goes still. His eyes glisten with moisture as he finally opens them. Napoleon carefully sits down on the bed as well, just perched on the edge. “If he takes you from us, I’ll just steal you back. I’m one of the best thieves in the whole world, you know that.”

He meets Gaby’s eyes shortly, before looking at Illya again. Napoleon can practically see the wheels turning in his head. It’s disconnecting to see his mind slowed down like that. It makes Napoleon want to beat the person bloody who did this to him. He’s seen his partner get shot, beaten down and sliced open over the last months. Still even bleeding out after a few days without food and sleep, Illya never looked so vulnerable, so hurt. Napoleon never considered himself the kind of person who enjoys taking revenge, but he might have been wrong about that. “Do you believe me?”

Illya stares at him for a moment longer with wide eyes, then he gives him a small nod. Napoleon squeezes his hand again and tries to smile reassuringly. He hopes Illya is too out of it to notice the fraying edges of his mask. “Good. Why don’t you rest a bit and I’ll watch out for you?”

With another small nod Illya closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. The tension slowly leaves his body, chased by some small shudders. Gaby carefully drapes the blanket over him again. This time he doesn’t try to fight it off. Gaby shrugs off her shoes and stretches out on her side next to him. He instantly turns his head to her, but his eyes stay closed. Carefully Gaby lays her arms around him and shifts him over, so that his head rests against her. Illya goes willingly and presses his face against Gaby’s shoulder. Gaby runs her fingers through his hair, before placing a soft kiss on the top of his head.

“You belong to us now. We will keep you safe.”

It doesn’t even take a minute for Illya’s fingers to get completely limp in Napoleon’s hand. He sets it down on the bed, when he’s sure that Illya’s asleep. 

“Solo.”

Her voice is quiet, but her words lack the tenderness they had before. 

“Who is Mikhail?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of humiliation/dub-con, non-consensual drug use, possibly dub-con undressing and touching, vomiting and drug induced flashbacks/panic


	8. Chapter 8

“Who is Mikhail?”

Solo looks at her and shakes his head, his jaw set, pleading in his eyes. A sudden fury takes hold in Gaby. Illya resting against her is the only thing that keeps her from shouting. He can’t be serious. They are supposed to be a team and they still keep secrets from her. It’s not that she doesn’t grant them privacy, but this is _important_. If there is something, or someone as it seems, that hurts Illya like this, she _has to know_. They can’t keep it from her.

Solo stays on the edge of the bed for another few minutes in silence before getting up. She watches him take off his suit jacket and vest and throw them over one of the chairs. He pulls something out of an inner pocket, a small card, then he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and starts cleaning up the mess Illya left in the doorway.

Gaby draws a little back to check on the man curled up with her. Although Illya is asleep, he still looks miserable. She tucks him closer and hopes it helps. She tries to relax against him, but she knows it won’t work, not with her mind still racing.

Someone targets Illya and they don’t have any clue who it could be. She is sure, that it’s the same person who planted the letters in Illya’s hotel room. But why are they after Illya? She doesn’t think that this is about the mission. It just doesn’t add up, not with the letters, not with what happened this evening. She recalls the messages left for Illya easily since they’ve been playing around Gaby’s head for the last weeks over and over. They sound personal, even if they don’t fit Illya in the slightest. _Little bird_. Nobody would look at Illya and give him such a nickname. It just doesn’t make sense.

Or it just doesn’t make sense anymore. Maybe at some point it did. Maybe it is someone who has known Illya for a long time. She pictures a younger version of Illya, all long limbs, not yet grown into his frame, maybe a little clumsy. It’s not that unlikely, especially not with Illya’s behavior this evening. He expected something to happen to him, he expected _Mikhail_ , whoever that is. What if Illya didn’t want them to call in U.N.C.L.E. because he knows, who broke into his suite. She still has no idea, how somebody could have managed that without Illya noticing them. Maybe he did notice them breaking in, but didn’t do anything. His words from earlier ring in her ears. _You can’t stop him_. Gaby shakes her head slightly to clear her thoughts. If Illya knew who broke in, he wouldn’t have accused them of stealing his chess set. She knows then he would have tried to hide it from them and suffer on his own. Her arms tighten around Illya reflexively with the urge to protect him. She doesn’t know against what or if she stands a chance, but that doesn’t keep her from trying.

Solo spends another ten minutes scrubbing the floor, before he gets up and settles into a chair, facing them. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stretches out his legs. She lifts her head a little in question. Solo meets her gaze for a second, then shakes his head.

Well, if he doesn’t want to join them, it’s fine with her. She is still angry, with both of them to be honest, but Solo is the one she is able to direct her anger at. With an audible exhale she turns her head away.

Gaby stays awake that night, her thoughts still running wild. Ideas and speculations chase each other, nothing completely dismissed, but nothing quite fitting either. She watches the first beams of sunlight trickle in through the windows and lighten up the room. Solo spends the whole night in the chair after all, his chin resting on his chest. He looks really uncomfortable and she’s sure, that his neck and back will ache the whole day for sleeping like that. Idiot. She closes her eyes, but it makes her feel even more restless. Abandoning her last hope to get any sleep she wiggles a little. Illya stays dead to the world as she turns on her back, so his head rests against her shoulder. She throws an arm around him and holds him in place.

Finally Illya looks relaxed, no hint of the former anguish. His lashes fan out over his cheekbones. The tips of them are light, catching the little rays of sunshine coming in through the windows. Without his usual scowl the even lines of his face are more obvious. He’s beautiful, the scar on his temple only a reminder that he’s made of flesh and blood. Her eyes follow the lines of his nose and his jaw and finally his lips.

It’s been months since Rome and still nothing happened. One some days it’s frustrating, on some days it’s easy. She likes Illya, wants him, and she knows that he wants her too, but he always stays in line, infuriatingly so. It’s not easy even without Solo added to the mix, pulling both Illya’s and her strings daily. Gaby and Illya should probably figure out whatever there is between them alone, but neither she nor Illya make attempts to leave their partner out of the equation. It doesn’t help, that the American’s a terrible flirt with everybody but not with them. Well, sometimes with them too, but more like a slip of the mind, not with the intent of a casual shag like they witnessed countless times. She doesn’t know what to make of those and Solo himself doesn’t seem to know either. Now that she thinks of it, maybe Solo is equally frustrating, only in a different way.

Still Solo and Illya are the worst together, constantly talking behind her back. She knows, she is by far not as experienced as they are, but that can’t ever change, if they leave her out and keep secrets from her.

It hurts.

As if he senses her thinking about him, she sees Solo lift his head out of the corner of her eye. He grimaces and his hand wanders to his neck immediately to rub away the stiffness with a small groan.

He glances in their direction and smiles tiredly.

“Good Morning, Gaby.”

She considers ignoring him, because she is still angry, but she doesn’t have the energy to hold on to it.

“Morning. How is your neck?”

“Awful.” He raises his arms and stretches. Gaby can hear his spine pop and winces in sympathy. With a small sigh he slumps forwards and leans on his arms propped up on his thighs.

“How’s Peril?”

“Didn’t make another sound.”

Solo hums and keeps on watching them.

“He can’t stay here.”

Gaby knows he’s right, but she doesn’t like it. Illya will like it even less. “I will call in and get him extracted.” There is no other way. They still don’t know who they are up against in this matter and she won’t risk Illya’s safety.

Solo nods with a tense expression, then he gets up.

He rummages through the kitchen, opening the drawers and cupboards, but doesn’t actually take anything out.

“Do you look for something particular?”

“Oatmeal.”

“You hate oatmeal.”

Solo sighs quietly. “Yes I do, but I don’t think Peril’s stomach is up for anything actually good after last night.”

He grabs the keys and his purse, then he steps into his shoes. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want anything?”

Gaby shakes her head. On some days Solo still surprises her with his sudden bursts of sweetness. She feels the urge to say _stay safe_ , but she smothers it down.

“Don’t take too long.”

Of course Solo smiles at her like he knows exactly what she wanted to say, then he’s out the door.

Gaby looks back down to Illya, who doesn’t seem disturbed by their former conversation. Carefully she withdraws from him, tugging the blanket in place after her.

She opts against taking a shower. Maybe she she’s paranoid, but she doesn’t want to leave Illya out of her sight yet, not when he can’t look out for himself.

Instead she walks over to the kitchen and makes coffee, the cheap instant kind that she had to fight Solo over. She heats more water and sets up tea, chamomile. Since Illya didn’t brush his teeth last night he might be thankful for something that tastes not like bile.

She fills it in the pot designated only for herbal tea to keep it warm. She can’t help but snort at that. Only Solo could be trusted to bring decadence to even the simplest things.

She takes her coffee and sits herself down on the table. Only then she remembers the card Solo fished out of his suit. Carefully she picks it up.

It looks neat, creamy white paper, the letters embossed in black.

_Richard Avery_

Not a name she’s ever heard before. Neither the address nor the number beneath the name ring any bells, but she carefully tucks the information away for later.

She takes another sip of her coffee, when a muffled groan makes her look over to the bed.

Illya rolls on his back and throws his arm over his eyes. Gaby grabs a clean mug and some aspirin and puts it on a tray with the tea. She’s not quiet, so she doesn’t startle Illya as she brings it over. Still, he flinches when she sits down on the bed next to him. She runs her fingers through his hair, which makes him finally lift the arm off his face.

She is used to him snapping from deep slumber to absolute wakefulness within seconds, but she’s not surprised that this is not the case today. His eyes squint against the brightness of the room, a deep frown in his face. She can see his jaw clenching tight, then he turns away, burying his face in the pillow.

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

Either the drugs didn’t leave him fully yet or it has to be really bad, that he admits it so easily.

“I have tea and Aspirin waiting for you. Can you sit up?”

He gives her a small nod, but doesn’t attempt to move for another five minutes. She pours the tea in the cup as Illya rises with another groan.

Gratefully he takes the cup and two pills from her. He swallows them with small sips, not even drinking half of the cup, before handing it back. She can see him swallow a few times as he lies down again.

“Nausea?”

“Yes.”

“Something else?”

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “Tired. Dizzy.”

She pushes a few strands of his hair back from his forehead. “Please wait for Solo, if you need to throw up again.”

Illya frowns without opening his eyes.

“Again?”

He relaxes into her touch, so she keeps it up.

“You don’t remember last night, do you?”

The frown on his face deepens.

“I remember going to the club.”

His silence tells her, that there is not much after that. She thought about the possibility of this during the night. Depending on what they’ve given him, it’s not uncommon. She grabs his hand and takes it to her lap, intertwining their fingers. “You were drugged, ambushed.”

His eyes flutter open and find hers, confusion clearly written on his face.

“Solo found you in an alley a few minutes from the club, barely coherent, disorientated, without your coat. There were two men you fought off on the ground.”

There is not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“We brought you home. You couldn’t walk on your own. You threw up in the doorway.”

Illya closes his eyes again, scrunching up his face. He doesn’t look like he’s got an idea how someone managed to drug him either. And that is even more frightening than the whole ordeal last night.

She forces a small smile on her face. “Don’t worry, Solo cleaned it up for you.”

Illya curses softly, burying his face under his arm again. Gaby thought he fell asleep, when she hears his muffled voice after a while. “He won’t let me forget that, will he?”

She chuckles lightly. “Probably not too soon.”

Gaby sets down the tray with the rest of the tea down on the floor next to the bed and gets up. “He’s out to get us breakfast, by the way. Oatmeal.”

Illya turns his head slightly, so that he can peek out from under his arm with one eye.

“He hates oatmeal.”

Gaby hums in agreement, but doesn’t say anything further. She glances at the card on the small table again, a reminder, what they are actually here for. There’s little hope, that Illya would step down for this quietly, but they don’t really have a choice in this. Maybe it’s for the best, if they don’t leave him a choice as well.

Casually she sidesteps the table and moves on to the telephone on the wall. With a little luck she might arrange everything before Illya gets a chance to intervene.

“What are you doing?”

Gaby hesitates for a second, but lifts the speaker of the phone off its box. So much for a little luck.

“I’m going to call Waverly.”

“Why?”

A blink in his direction tells her that he already guessed why. He sits up, one of his feet planted on the ground, the other soon to follow.

Gaby sighs.

“Look, I don’t want this either, but- “

“No buts. We stay, finish this.”

Gaby swallows once. She doesn’t know if she should be glad that Solo is not here for this or not.

“We will finish this… Only without you.” She turns away from him and starts dialing. “Solo got an in last night. We can’t let this opportunity pass. It probably won’t take too long now.”

She only dialed the last number, when Illya shoots up from where he sits on the bed. His speed doesn’t betray his dizziness as crosses the loft with a few long strides. Gaby hears the dialing tone, when he arrives next to her. She’s not fast enough to keep Illya’s hands from closing around the phone.

With one pull Illya rips it along with the cord from the wall. The line goes dead. Gaby lets the handset drop to the floor, taking a deep breath before she lifts her head to Illya.

His hands shake, before he balls them into fists.

“I will stay with you.”

It is a feat that Gaby doesn’t start screaming at him.

“Illya, you _will_ get out of this city. U.N.C.L.E. _will_ pull you out of this mission. I don’t care if this is not the Russian way. This is how we can keep you safe.”

Gaby swallows once to contain her anger.

“We are worried about you.”

Illya snorts dismissively as an answer. Gaby balls her fists as well.

“Someone is after you. If somebody else found you yesterday, you could be dead by now. You are in danger. Get that in your thick head.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You were scared last night!”

Illya hands are shaking now, even balled to his fists when he looks at her. He doesn’t believe her. Or if he remembers last night, he will keep on denying it. This isn’t going anywhere like that. Gaby is sick of this.

“I know about Mikhail.”

Illya freezes. His eyes widen slightly. “What?”

Gaby hates this, hates lying to them, but they don’t give her much of a choice.

She nods.

It’s not even a lie. She knows, that he exists and that Illya is afraid of him. If he has something to do with all this, Illya needs to tell them.

Illya looks lost for a few moments, his lips slightly parted, his eyes avoiding her. His fingers twitch, but stay loose.

When he finally turns to her, his voice is cold.

“Solo told you.”

Gaby fights the urge to shrink away from his stare. It’s too much like their first encounter in Berlin, Illya nothing more than a dangerous stranger.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Then how would you know.”

It’s not even posed as a question, as if he expected Solo to rat him out. She fights the urge to bite her lip. She doesn’t want to drag Solo into this, but she can’t come up with a plausible explanation.

Illya just stares at her for a few seconds, then snorts, taking her silence as an answer. He turns her back to her and stalks over to the dresser. He all but tears it open, the doors creaking under the force. It doesn’t take half a minute, then Illya is dressed in his usual clothes, a turtleneck, grey slacks and the leather jacket with the coffee stain. Without even looking at her he crosses the room and slips into his shoes.

Gaby exhales. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

She reaches for his arm, but Illya evades her by twisting a little to the side. Stunned her hand hovers in the air for a second before she draws it back. He never did that before, avoiding her touch. Somehow it stings more than anything he could have said.

“Illya, please…”

He glances at her, but doesn’t say anything as he puts on his cap. His shoes are next, then he pulls up the zipper of his jacket.

Illya just reached out for the door handle when the lock clicks.

The door swings open and reveals Solo with a paper bag clutched against his chest. He doesn’t have the time to open his mouth before Illya grabs him at the collar and slams him against the wall next to the door. The bag falls from his hands. Something breaks in it and wets the paper. Gaby is ready to step in between them any second now, but all they do is stare at each other.

Illya drops his hands just a second later and steps back.

“Я тебе доверял.”

Gaby’s Russian is still too poor to understand what he’s saying, but the way Solo looks like he’s been slapped across the face is translation enough.

It would be easier, if Illya wasn’t so eerily calm. They could handle his white hot anger, but not this icy restraint. Solo seems just as helpless as she is in its wake. Both watch motionless as Illya leaves the loft without another word. He doesn’t even slam the door behind him.

Solo doesn’t turn around to her, his eyes still on the door.

“What happened, Gaby?”

Gaby swallows against the thick knot in her throat.

“We fought.”

Solo turns his head and eyes the ripped out telephone on the floor. “I can see that.” He steps around the paper bag on the floor. “And what did I do?”

“He thinks you told me about Mikhail.”

The same way Illya stopped in his tracks earlier, Solo’s hand pauses in the middle of opening his coat.

“Why would he think that?”

“Because I lied.”

The look Solo throws her is half disbelieve and half irritation. Gaby folds her arms in front of her chest. “I didn’t say that you did it. He jumped to the conclusion.”

“And you didn’t think of correcting him.”

“I tried, he wouldn’t listen.”

“Of course.”

Solo’s tone is almost dismissive, a nuance to his voice he never uses on them. The realization feels like ice-cold water running down her spine.

“You think I would play you against each other.”

“I think you just couldn’t let it go.”

For a few seconds words leave her. She never even considered that Solo would think about her like that.

“What am I supposed to do then? I know this wasn’t right, but it’s not like you don’t lie to me all the time. You can’t expect me to lay back and take it, when you cut me out.”

Solo raises his eyebrows and walks past her. He stops at the cabinet where they store their liquor. Gaby watches as he pours himself a generous amount of scotch. It’s not even noon. He picks up the glass and turns to face her.

“What do you think why we do it?”

He looks genuinely curious, not even denying it. He probably thinks it’s for her best and if that’s the case, she doesn’t know if he will ever truly understand her.

“I really don’t know what to think anymore. Iceland, then this, there’s probably a lot of stuff you don’t tell me, where I don’t even suspect anything.” She takes a deep breath to collect her thoughts. “I’m not telling you to spill all your secrets, just talk to me. If this Mikhail is after Illya, I need to know.”

His sigh is a strange mix of anger and resignation. “He’s not after Illya. I’m glad to tell you he’s dead.”

“This is the point. How am I supposed to know that, if you don’t tell me anything?”

Solo tilts his head slightly to the side, examining her like he does with his targets. She hates the feeling.

“So you say, that we don’t trust you, but you don’t trust us to tell you if you need to know something.”

She huffs out a humorless laugh.

“I could trust you to do that, if you stopped denying that there is something wrong in the first place.”

Gaby doesn’t know if she’s angry or sad anymore. Maybe both. They worked so hard in the last months, got to know each other, grew fond of each other, only to break apart on such a fundamental thing.

How can they be a team, if they don’t trust each other?

Solo looks at her, as if he can read her thoughts off her face. Maybe he can, because his anger seems to dissolve as well. He looks down at the scotch in his hand and shakes his head. It’s a small motion and so typically Solo, that Gaby can’t even imagine anyone else doing it.

She catches his hand, as he raises the glass to his mouth. Solo blinks down at her, but doesn’t fight her as she guides the glass back on the tablet. Her smile is more weary than anything. “You shouldn’t drink this early.”

He looks at the glass with a strange expression, then he lets go of it.

They stand facing each other for almost a full minute. A part of Gaby feels like she should apologize for all this, another part just doesn’t want to. They wouldn’t be in this place right now, if they didn’t leave her hanging in the air.

Now that her anger is gone, her uneasiness is back. She looks at the broken phone, the mess, which was supposed to be their breakfast, then at the door.

“Should we go looking for him?”

Solo looks as exhausted as she feels, when he shakes his head after a moment.

“I think it’s best to leave him alone a little. He’ll come back sooner or later and we can clear this up.”

Gaby nods. She hopes Solo is right.

 

By the time the sun sets, there’s still no sign of Illya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> “Я тебе доверял.” means “I trusted you.”


	9. Chapter 9

The cold December air bites, but Illya barely feels it. There’s a different kind of cold within him, drowning other sensations out. He’s used to anger, but somehow this is different. His fury is usually so hot in his veins it blinds him, this time it’s like an icy grip around his torso. His fingers don’t even shake. Instead his throat is all clogged up and there’s a pit in his stomach. He tries to walk it off, but exercising doesn’t seem to have any effect on him this time. For a second he considers, that it’s not anger he feels, but he beats the thought down the second he recognizes it.

He should have known and still it surprised him. Solo told Gaby, although he promised not to say anything. He doesn’t know why he expected him to keep his word. He’s a spy, a thief, he probably just waited for the perfect opportunity to get the optimal response. It’s been a thorough success. Gaby wants him off the mission, out of the city and in a few weeks most likely out of the team. And when it comes to that, Illya will leave. It’s better than seeing the pity and disgust in her eyes when she thinks he doesn’t notice. He was a fool to believe that he had even the smallest of chances of keeping her in any way. He should have known better than thinking there could be anything more between him and his teammates than a simple working relationship. Not friendship and certainly not more. It was a nice idea, having people around he could trust with more than not shooting him in the back. Still, it was only an idea. He should probably thank Solo for showing him how delusional he’s become. 

He walks down the streets, one of the routes he worked out covering all possibly interesting spots in the city for their mission. Some part of him hopes to run across one of the men he targeted over the last weeks, but that would mean some of the women were hurt again and he instantly feels bad for thinking this way. Still the thought of punching someone and getting punched in return seems somehow appealing right now, a distraction from all the other thoughts running in his head. 

The painkillers he swallowed earlier fade fast. He can feel the pounding of his feet on the ground in his head, his stomach is rolling constantly. He has to concentrate to walk straight. The light of the day hurts in his eyes despite his hat drawn in his face. As he passes a diner the smell of greasy food forces him to duck into an alley. There is nothing in him that he could throw up except the two sips of tea, but that doesn’t keep his body from trying. 

After barely two hours he’s done with his round and starts another. And a next one after that. 

He covered most of the city, when dusk starts to color the sky orange and red. He lost the feeling in his hands and feet a while ago. They don’t even hurt anymore, they’re just numb. He looks down at his hands. His fingers are just as red as the horizon, the skin on his knuckles split open from the cold, his fingertips white. He knows he should get somewhere warm. His leather jacket is by far not enough to keep out the chill for longer than a few minutes. Absently he raises his hand to the back of his neck. With his frozen fingertips he can’t feel the spot where the coffee has hit him, but he knows it’s there, the patch of leather a bit rougher that the rest. He doesn’t really remember the men on the table next to them, but he remembers the feeling of a scarf wrapped around his neck, fingers closing around his, a warm hand on his back.

Suddenly he can’t stand to wear it anymore. The cold air hits him square in the chest as he pulls down the zipper and shrugs out of it. 

He folds it across his arms and starts walking again, considering his options. He can’t return to the loft, he can’t stay outside like this, but he doesn’t want to see anyone. His feet carry him aimless through the city, until he finds himself at the river again. He’s about to turn around again, the moist air robbing him of the rest of his warmth even faster, when sees the club they went to yesterday. Gaby said he didn’t have his coat with him when they found him. There’s a good chance that it’s still in the cloakroom. He checks his watch. It’s not late enough for the patrons to arrive, but the staff would definitely be there already. With little options left he walks up the street towards the club.

The door is still locked, so Illya knocks loudly. Nothing happens, so he tries again after five minutes. He’s raised his fist for a third time, when he hears the door unlock. The man opening the door a few moments later Illya recognizes as the bartender from last night. He looks at Illya with a frown, taking in his appearance. Illya clears his throat. 

“I believe I forgot my coat here yesterday.”

The man studies his face for a long second, then his eyes widen slightly. 

“Yes of course, sir. Please come in.”

He throws the door open wide and gestures Illya to enter the club. Illya nods shortly in thanks and steps in. 

The interior is still as luscious as Illya remembers it, but without the crowd it feels odd. What seemed tasteful yesterday night is now just too much.

Illya follows the bartender into the main room. He looks around, but they are alone. The other man walks quickly, his shoulders a little more tense than normal. Illya carefully keeps the frown off his face. It could be just a quirk of the man or he’s stressed because he needs to prepare for opening and doesn’t have the time to put up with Illya. Still he stays alert. There is something lurking in the back of his mind, lost with the memories of last night.

The man gestures towards the unoccupied bar. “Please take a seat, sir. The cloakroom gets cleared after every night, so I’ll have your coat fetched from another storage room.” 

Illya nods wordlessly, but stays standing in the middle if the room. The bartender waits awkwardly a few seconds for him to move before slipping behind the bar. “Would you like to have a drink while you wait? On the house of course.”

Illya can’t even force himself to smile politely. “Just my coat please. Thank you.” Even if he was in the mood for drinking anything, he doesn’t think he could stomach it. 

For a moment the man looks like he’s about to ask him if Illya’s sure, but a rather annoyed glare shuts him up. With a professional smile the bartender nods and disappears through a door in the back. 

Illya flexes his stiff fingers and walks over to the next wall to lean against it. It’s almost the same spot he occupied last night when Solo walked into the club. After that things go fuzzy. He remembers the distinct feeling of Solo’s eyes on him, the crowd parting for a new guest, then only a few single sensations. Cold, a few glimpses of a fight, fear. Gaby was right, he was scared last night, although he can’t remember why. 

Slowly the warmth of the room creeps into his limbs again. His flesh stings where the numbness ceases. He clenches and unclenches his fingers to speed up the process. 

A memory flashes through the haze of last night. A shiver running through his body, then a warm body pressed against his front, fighting the cold, a whiff of cologne, almost too familiar to notice it. It’s barely a second and Illya can’t really place it, but he knows it must have been Solo. Illya’s fists stay clenched now.

He focuses on his surroundings to keep his thoughts busy. If he can’t keep himself from thinking about his partners, he could at least do it in a useful way. He should get used to staying professional with them again. He didn’t even notice how far he’s slipped in the last months. They are here because of their mission, so this should be the only thing on his mind, the only relevant thing at least. Gaby said that Solo found an in last night, so this seems to be the right place. Now that Illya’s alone here, he should take the opportunity to look around a bit himself.

He notices the cameras of the place, one at the entrance, one on the door of the door Solo disappeared into last night. They are very well hidden, built into the walls to match the pattern of some elaborate fresco, so he can’t blame himself not to have noticed them before. Or maybe he did notice them, but doesn’t remember. For a few seconds he holds his breath and listens for people moving through the adjoining rooms. There’s nothing he can pick up, which either means that there is no one close or that the room is isolated very well. Still he pushes himself off the wall and walks over to the bar. His steps are casual, so if he did overlook another camera, he wouldn’t make himself suspicious instantly. He slips behind the counter and lets his fingers run over a few bottles. They offered him a drink after all. 

There is nothing interesting. The bottles are sorted, the glasses stacked neatly. A few decanters are left out to dry before getting filled for the evening again. The register on the counter is bolted to the wall, out of reach for the customers. Illya can’t make out hidden buttons or anything, but there is one drawer with a lock. 

Illya stops in front of it. His right hand grabs one unopened bottle of wine above the counter, his left runs around the drawer. He can’t break the lock without drawing attention to it and he doesn’t have his tools with him anyway, but there is a slight chance that the key is hidden not far from it.

He doesn’t jump when the door opens. He subtly steps back from the drawer and turns around. 

The bartender enters the room with three other men following him and without Illya’s coat. The men behind him look slightly familiar, judging from their build and the black eye one of them is sporting, they’re the bouncers of the club. The men stay back next to the door, while the bartender approaches him with a clearly strained smile. 

“Sir, please stay in front of the counter.”

Illya nods and makes his way out. With a small flick of his wrist he takes a corkscrew with him and hides it in his sleeve. It goes unnoticed. He remembers the hours he spent with Solo training this move. Illya fights to keep his expression neutral as he chases the thought away. He glances at the muscle the bartender brought, looking unimpressed. On a normal day he could take them down without even working up sweat, today he’s not that sure. He turns to the bartender again. “I changed my mind. I would like a drink now.”

The bartender’s smile doesn’t fall as he gets behind the counter, but there’s a stiffness in his gait that there hasn’t been before. Diverting suspicion with rudeness, another thing Illya picked up from Solo. Solo, who had a field day dragging Illya along a whole night on a dare as he insulted countless doormen, which surprisingly got them in every time. Solo, who probably didn’t even blink an eye while he stabbed Illya in the back.

He takes a seat at the bar, observing the bartender subtly checking everything. If he notices the missing corkscrew, he doesn’t show it. Illya hears the faint rustling of clothes as the bouncers shift their weight from one foot to the other. He can only see them out of the corner of his eyes, which is not optimal, but watching the bartender fixing his drink is more important at the moment. 

The man doesn’t ask what Illya wants and grabs an already opened bottle. If Illya can avoid it, he won’t even set his lips on the rim of the glass. 

It’s some kind of scotch, the smell and the amber color make it easy to hide something in it. Illya takes the glass in his hands and lets the liquor swirl around a bit, looking for traces of powder, although that would have been too obvious. Instead of drinking, he sets it down again.

The bartender looks at him expectantly, but all Illya does is keeping his hands on it, his fingers drumming against the glass now and then. It’s the only sound disrupting the tense silence between them. Illya turns to look at the bouncers, who trade glances minutely. Their shoulders are set, their stance a little widened. They’re preparing for a fight, it’s obvious, Illya just doesn’t know when they’re going to attack him.

His fingers twitch towards the corkscrew as the door opens again. He relaxes somewhat as a young woman enters, Illya’s coat in her arms. Her appearance is striking, with her light red hair and a couple prominent freckles all over her face even in winter. She looks a little nervous, but Illya can’t blame her for it. He can practically smell the subliminal aggression in the room. 

The bartender lets out an almost annoyed sigh. 

“Finally! What took you so long?”

The woman mutters a quiet apology. Illya can’t help but notice her fingers tightening around the fabric of his coat. 

“At least don’t make this gentleman wait any longer, please.”

She throws a quick glance at Illya, then bows her head a little and looks at the ground while she crosses the room. Illya doesn’t like the way the bartender talks to her, but he’s not in the position to do anything. Instead he gets up from his seat to meet her halfway.

She startles a little as he approaches her. In the short moment their gazes meet, Illya tries to smile a little. Instantly she turns her head down again and holds his coat open in front of her. 

“Please let me help you, sir.”

Illya doesn’t want to cause her any more trouble, so he turns around and lets her guide his arms in his sleeves. 

He remembers the last evening, when Gaby did the same, straightening his tie once more and seeing him off. She pressed another kiss to his temple in the doorway and he smiled when he left. 

Maybe he should try to make the best of the time he’s still got left with his team. Maybe he should go home. 

The woman behind him reaches up to neaten his collar. Her voice is almost too soft to carry. 

“I’m sorry.”

Illya frowns. He’s about to ask her what she means by that, when he feels a prick at his neck. 

He twists around instantly, his hand on the spot. The young woman looks up at him with a mixture of remorse and fear. There’s a syringe in her hand, empty. He slowly reaches out to her. She flinches, but doesn’t draw back as he pushes the collar of her blouse a little to the side. 

The mark in the shape of a feather is the last thing he sees before his vision turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual drug use


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big Thank You to my wonderful beta Ursa_Es for proof reading :)

He can’t really believe it yet. Last night was a failure through and through. The Raven has been practically in his hands. He’s been in his office, drank his scotch, shook his hand. He’s been even close enough for him to smell his cologne. And he was so pretty he practically begged to be kept. Letting the Raven go to catch the Falcon was a hard call to make and then it didn’t work out. He’s been more than furious. And now Avery sits next to his Falcon and waits for him to wake up.

The man’s lying on a small bed, one of his wrists chained to the bedpost. The drug is still heavy in his system, but his hands have started twitching a few minutes ago. Avery doesn’t plan for him to stay here on the long run, but the first months tend to be difficult. Boundaries and hierarchy have to be established, before he can even think of granting privileges. 

One of such privileges is a real room, but that has to be earned. 

The small cell they’re in has been vacant for long, like the whole part of the basement. It has really been a long time since Avery liked something enough to bother training it, not even speaking of keeping it for more than a few weeks. His Falcon is definitely worth it. 

Avery extends a hand and pushes back a strand of blond hair from his Falcon’s forehead. It feels nice, softer than he thought. He runs his hands through his hair a little longer, then he descends lower. His fingertips trace the lines of his Falcon’s face, his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips. He’s beautiful, there is no doubt. 

His hand travels down his Falcon’s neck and pushes down the high collar of his turtleneck. A shame really to conceal so much skin, but it’s going to be even better when he finally gets to see what’s underneath that fabric, when he gets to touch. Now that Avery has him, there’s no rush anymore, only anticipation. He’s got enough experience to slowly bend him to his will, one way or another. Nothing is more satisfactory than the moment they give up and become his altogether.

A small moan makes Avery smile and his hand wander up again. He rests it against the side of his Falcon’s head and strokes with his thumb over his cheek. To his delight his Falcon turns his head slightly into the touch. His brows are drawn into a slight frown, which Avery rubs away with his free hand. His Falcon’s eyes stay closed, his head still resting in Avery’s palm. It’s sweet really, until he opens his mouth.

“…Cowboy?”

Avery doesn’t know who his Falcon is referring to, but it’s not him. He lets it slip for now, but he’ll come back to it, when he’s found out who that _Cowboy_ is.

Blue eyes flutter open. His pupils are still dilated from the drugs, but they are still lovely. His Falcon blinks a few times, looking up at him with a confused expression. Avery can see the second his mind finally catches on. His expression is too precious. Avery can’t help but smile down at his Falcon.

“Welcome home, little bird.”

For another few moments his Falcon just stares at him, before his jaw sets. Avery knows the signs of an outbreak by heart. They all do it at some point. He gets up from his chair just in time before his Falcon jerks up. From a few steps away from the bed Avery watches him trying to get up. Only after his second failure he does he notice the cuff around his wrist. The dose of the drug must have been slightly higher than Avery anticipated. The cuff cut into his flesh already. A few drops of blood run down his arm. His Falcon doesn’t seem to care. Instead he rolls out of the cot with a twist of his body. He’s too uncoordinated to make it look graceful and lands hard on his knees. 

Avery knows he has to leave the cell, when his Falcon grabs the frame of the cot. He doesn’t run, that would be undignified, but he’s got enough self-preservation to make his way quickly. He locks the door of the cell, when he hears a crash. He looks up and peers through the bars of the cell. His Falcon has the cot raised over his head and smashes it against the wall, over and over. After the third time the wooden bars snap. Instead of simply slipping his wrist free, he just carries on. 

It’s incredible to watch. All that strength just hell-bent on destruction, like a force of nature trapped in the body of a mere human.

When there is nothing left but the pieces he holds in his hands, he grabs the chair Avery sat on and hauls it in the other direction. Instead of going after it and wrecking it like the bed, he bends over. For a second Avery thinks he’s going to fall, but he stays on his feet. He’s breathing hard, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he needs to clear his vision. He looks down at his hands, which are shaking like leaves. 

Only then he turns to Avery again. His steps are slow, as he walks towards the bars of his cell, but his whole body is tense. His gaze is murderous. It makes a shiver run down Avery’s spine. Not out of fear, but excitement. He expected his Falcon to be hot-blooded, but he clearly exceeds his expectations. To tame and train him will be a challenge, probably a constant fight stretched over months. Avery can’t wait for it to begin. 

“They will come for me.”

Avery gives himself a few moments to cherish the sound of his voice, the way his accent colors the words, before smiling at him through the bars. 

“Oh, I’m sure they will.”

The slight confusion on his face is a really sweet look, Avery has to make sure to provoke that expression some more in the future. He’s a lot easier to read than on the surveillance footage, but the drugs probably helped with that. It’s a little endearing. Avery makes a mental note to lace his water with something to keep him in this state. He reaches inside his inner pocket and draws out the tracker.

He holds it up with two fingers. The confusion on his Falcon’s face makes way to recognition. Avery chuckles. 

“I found this in the pocket of your coat. It’s still working.”

He pockets it again. “Your little friends will come and I will be prepared.” He gives his Falcon another smile. “How nicely I’m going to welcome them depends only on you, little bird.”

His Falcon stares at him with slightly widened eyes. 

Avery turns around and leaves him alone without another word. He’s about to close the door, when he hears a barely muffled shout and another round of crashes. The chair probably. His Falcon has to perch on the floor then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-consensual touching and non-consensual drug use, slightly implied threats of violence/rape


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta Ursa_Es

The glass in Napoleon’s hand is empty again. He didn’t even notice when he downed the rest. Instead of getting up for a refill he stays seated in one of the chairs around the table. He turned it, so he could look out the window, but there is nothing to see. The lights of the city at night are usually one of his favorite parts about the loft, but his eyes are blind for it at the moment. He knows Gaby sits on the other chair, barely two feet apart from him, but he can’t bring himself to face her, let alone talk to her. Napoleon is rarely angry, but he is now. At least he was earlier today. He knows the second he turns to Gaby, the poor remains of his anger will crumble under the anguish in her eyes. She’s right in a way, which only makes it worse. She couldn’t have known, Illya and he made sure of that. Still of all things she should just leave alone, she picks this to stick her fingers in.

He knows he’s not really angry at her. He has known that for hours. Still it is easier to be angry than to be worried.

Napoleon blinks to the side. Gaby mirrors his pose almost perfectly. She didn’t change her clothes, not since they went out yesterday night.

It is really strange. Napoleon furnished the loft for his own needs and no one else’s. Other than for housing a guest for one night tops he didn’t even bother buying anything. And now, that he’s here with only one companion, the loft feels bare, empty.

His fingers trace the rim of his glass. He is half of a mind to get a refill, but he wants to be somewhat sober if Illya returns. When, not if. He only needs time for himself.

Gaby seems to have felt his eyes on her and glances his way without turning her head.

“He only took his leather jacket.”

Napoleon nods shortly. “I know.”

Funny, because he thought about this as well. It’s still December and Russian winters aside, the cold is biting. He remembers last night too well, the way Illya felt like ice, his whole body shaking against him when they were waiting for Gaby to bring the car. Now that he knows how Illya looks like that, he can’t seem to shake the idea of him freezing to death out there.

He eyes the leftovers of what was supposed to be their dinner. Neither of them were able to work up an appetite, the silence between them almost as deafening as Illya’s absence. Napoleon gets up and takes their mostly full plates. He puts everything away just to give his hands something to do.

It’s a tragedy, that it barely takes ten minutes before he’s finished with that, so he sits back down on the chair next to Gaby. Napoleon leans back again. When he didn’t feel like speaking before, now the renewed silence between them is unbearable. He folds his arms in front of his chest.

“He may be angry, but that doesn’t make him stupid. If he’s still out somewhere, then he probably got himself something warm.”

Gaby hums absently, before turning in her chair to face him with a surprisingly swift move.

“Do you think he took his coat back? It’s probably still at the club.”

Napoleon shrugs. “Could be.”

Gaby nods eagerly and jumps up from her chair. Napoleon watches her as she bustles around the loft, collecting her surveillance gear and dropping it on the table. He frowns a little.

“What are you doing?”

Gaby doesn’t even take the time to look at him, while her fingers fly around. She stacks everything together faster than Napoleon even thought possible. The mess of cables, monitors and receivers looks like it’s assembling itself. Gaby connects it with the socket in the wall and flips the switch on.

“What do you think? I’m trying to locate Illya.”

Napoleon’s frown deepens.

“You put a tracker on him?”

Now it is Gaby’s time to look at him with a frown. “I didn’t. You did.”

The small spark in Napoleon’s chest dies at that instantly.

“Yes I did, but Illya threw out all of my trackers when we left the hotel.”

“Not the one in his coat pocket. I found it and put it back.”

Napoleon needs a few seconds to understand what she’s talking about. He nearly laughs. The tracker Gaby’s talking about had been a joke, nothing more. He slipped it in Illya’s coat pocket for him to find it and get a reaction out of him. When Illya didn’t take the bait Napoleon thought he just ignored him. It didn’t even cross his mind, that Illya just hadn’t found it.

Napoleon steps behind Gaby and watches the monitor. There is a signal coming in from the north. The club is in a different direction.

He allows himself a small smile.

“So Miss Teller, what do you think about picking up our favorite Russian?”

She turns her head towards him and returns his smile. “I’d love to. I need a few minutes to make this portable, then we’re good to go.”

With just as lightning quick movements Gaby swaps out a few pieces, then the signal is back on. Napoleon picks up the device and leaves Gaby to get the keys. He barely suppresses a smirk, when he sees her just snatching the first warm sweater she can get her hands on. It’s one of his and she almost drowns in the fabric. After that she grabs one for Illya and every blanket she can get her hands on.

Together they leave the loft and pile everything into their car. Napoleon gets in on the passenger side, leaving the driving to Gaby and taking charge of giving direction.

The streets are empty and slippery. Frost glistens on the asphalt in the light of the street lamps. They have to drive slower than they would like to, but there is nothing they can do. At least Illya doesn’t seem to move fast either. He doesn’t seem to move at all. Napoleon pushed the memories of Illya almost frozen to death to the back of his mind again. This doesn’t have to mean anything.

They drive for a long time. At some point they leave the city behind them and reach the suburbs, before passing them as well. From the windows Napoleon sees single houses, some just big, some others the size of mansions. There’s a strange feeling in Napoleon’s gut. What would Illya want here?

He glances at Gaby. The way her fingers are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel she’s thinking about it as well.

The signal of the tracker gets closer and closer, until Napoleon signals Gaby to pull over. She cuts the lights of the car and stops a little further down the road. Together they get silently out of the car and sneak to the main entrance. The house and the garden in front of it are well lit and guarded, so they don’t dare to get too close, but they are close enough to see the main gate. It’s definitely custom made. In the center of it there is a circle set in between the bars, in it a single feather.

Napoleon swallows dry. Gaby’s head whips around to him. There is just enough light for him to catch the terror in her eyes.

“This is the address of the card they gave you, isn’t it.”

The way she says it, it’s barely a question. Still Napoleon nods.

“Scheiße.”

Napoleon couldn’t have found a better word for it. Either Illya broke in the mansion out of sheer stubbornness, or he’s been caught. There are endless scenarios playing in Napoleon’s head what could have happened and none of them puts him at ease.

Gaby grabs his arm and starts walking. Napoleon tries half-heartedly to fight her, but just gets dragged along. “Where are we going?”

“Back to the car.”

Napoleon is about to protest, when she yanks at his arm harder and forces him to meet her gaze dead on.

“I know this is all my fault, but we can’t do anything about this right now. We drive back and think of something. I won’t let you sneak in there unprepared and on your own.”

Napoleon opens his mouth to argue against her, but nothing comes out. She knows him well. This is probably just what he is going to do, if they don’t leave now.

Then something else caught his attention. He raises his hand and covers hers, which still has a tight grip on his arm.

“This is not your fault, Gaby.”

Gaby huffs and let go of him. “If you say so. Now get in the car.”

Napoleon complies without another word.

The ride back to the loft is silent, both of them deep in thought. It’s fairly late when they get back. Gaby busies herself with putting away her gear, Napoleon fixes them both a drink. Gaby takes it gratefully and almost downs it in one go before flopping down in one of the chairs. She sets the glass down at the table and rubs over her face with both hands.

“So what do we do now?”

Napoleon watches her and takes a sip from his glass.

“I don’t think there is much we can do now. If he hasn’t been caught, looking for him would only blow our cover.”

“So we wait?”

“For the time being yes.”

Napoleon looks at her for a minute and studies her features. She looks as restless as he feels, her fingers tapping against the glass, her feet unable to stay still.

They really can’t do anything right now to get Illya home. But maybe there’s something else to get.

Napoleon stands up and puts on his coat again. Gaby looks at him with suspicion. He holds both hands up in surrender.

“I’m just going for a walk, relax. I won’t do anything stupid.” At least he hopes it isn’t stupid. Gaby seems to look right through him, her gaze stays hard.

“You come back, right?”

The question surprises him a little. “Of course.”

There’s a short silence, then she nods. “Alright, don’t take too long.”

Napoleon smiles a little. “I promise.”

He makes sure to maintain eye contact, so that she doesn’t notice when he swipes the card up with his hand and makes it disappear in his sleeve.

A little guilt swells up within him, when he closes the door behind himself. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he held, when he pulls out the card again and walks down the stairs. Gaby is probably going to kill him for this. It’s exactly the kind of betrayal she accused them of. Still it’s the best way to determine, if Illya’s there or not.

He finds a telephone booth on the street on the other side of the building. He only brought a few dollars, but it should be enough. He takes a last look at the card in his hands, then he starts dialing the number on it.

It starts ringing with only a few seconds to spare. Napoleon glances at his watch. It’s only minutes to midnight and it’s incredibly rude to call that late for business, but he guesses there are no strict working hours in this kind of business. It rings long enough for Napoleon to think, that he’s indeed too late. He almost set down the speaker to call in the morning, when someone picks up at the other line.

“This had better be important.”

The voice sounds familiar and more angry than tired. Not the best start, but Napoleon can still make it work.

“Mr. Avery?”

There’s a small pause on the other end of the line, so Napoleon jumps in again. “It’s James Fleming, you met me yesterday evening in your club.”

“Mr. Fleming, what a late surprise.”

Napoleon doesn’t know what to make of the sudden friendliness, but decides to play along.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, but I had to make sure my wife is not listening in.” Strangely Gaby appears in front of his eyes, her face knowing, but staying silent. He shakes his head slightly to disperse the image.

A light chuckle from Avery makes him listen up. “Don’t be sorry, I fully understand. As pleasant as it is hearing your voice, I believe there is a reason for this call?”

Napoleon frowns a little. Something is clearly off, the uneasiness he felt at their meeting is back full force. He beats it down. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Yes, there is.” He takes a deep breath. “I made up my mind.”

“So you know what you want?”

“Yes I do. I want someone the complete opposite of my wife to be exact.”

Another chuckle from the other end of the line.

“So what would someone like that be like?”

Napoleon swallows once, gathering his thoughts.

“A man. Tall, blond, muscular, late twenties or early thirties. Scars are fine, I will leave my fair share of them anyway.” Napoleon has to fight the sick feeling in his stomach for a second before he can go on.

“I want someone who fights me and I want to break him, make him beg for mercy and give him none.”

There’s a short silence between them, before Avery speaks up again. His voice has an edge to it which hasn’t been there before.

“I think we might have someone here, who fits your desires. You said scars are fine, does that extend to facial scars as well?”

Napoleon’s grip around the phone tightens. It really could be Illya. He has to be careful now. If he sounds too eager, this could blow up in his face.

“That depends. Does it ruin his face? I want someone I can look at when I fuck him.”

The small laugh is noticeably deeper than the chuckles before. “If I might give you my opinion on that matter, I think he’s still quite enjoyable.”

Napoleon laughs a little himself, so he doesn’t scream. The thought alone, that someone like Avery simply looks at Illya that way is enough to make him want to knock the man’s teeth out.

“No offense, but I think I’ll need to have a look at him myself to decide that.”

“None taken. Is there a particular time you have in mind for that?”

Napoleon pretends to think about it for a second.

“Tomorrow afternoon would be perfect, but I don’t expect you to clear your schedule for me.”

“This is really no problem, Mr. Fleming. Tomorrow afternoon is fine.”

The sigh of relief is not an act. “Thank you Mr. Avery. I’ll see you tomorrow then. I have to get back now, before my wife gets suspicious.”

“Of course. I wish you a pleasant night.”

“Likewise.”

Napoleon hangs up and takes a deep breath. The air outside the booth is considerably colder, but he doesn’t hurry home.

How does he tell Gaby, that he has possibly found Illya in the clutches of the very ring they’ve been chasing and that she can’t come with him tomorrow to get him?

The call itself wasn’t that risky. Either Avery is already aware of the connection between him and Illya and it’s no news to him, or Napoleon’s cover is still fully intact and making a request is nothing special. Visiting Avery tomorrow could prove way more difficult. He can’t bring his supposed wife to inspect the man he’s about to buy. And there’s still the possibility, that Avery is talking about another man and not Illya after all.

His thoughts go around in circles. Now he really could use a walk to clear his head, but he’s been already away too long.

He doesn’t make any progress in that matter by the time he reaches his door and enters the loft again. Gaby is still seated on one of the chairs. The bottle of gin is now placed on the table next to her and there’s a not negligible amount missing. Gaby turns her head to him. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are rimmed red. It makes Napoleon pause for a second before hanging up his coat. He can hear Gaby use the time his back is turned to her to right herself a little judging from the rustle of cloth. When he turns around, there’s a faint smile on her face, but the redness of her eyes has yet to cease.

“How was your walk?”

“Uneventful.”

Napoleon’s expression doesn’t give away his surprise. He wonders when lying became so natural to him, that he doesn’t blink or even think about it anymore. He opens his mouth to correct himself, but something makes him stop. Gaby will be angry, rightfully so. And he won’t be able to stop her from coming along tomorrow, if he tells her about the conversation he just had.

The longer he thinks about it, the less he wants her to ever meet Avery or the likes of him. It’s not about her abilities as an agent, but the simple thought of her just shaking the man’s hand makes him sick.

She’s going to hate him for this, still he gives her a tired smile for good measure before stepping out of his shoes.

“Cold most notably.”

Gaby looks at his for another moment, before huffing out a tired laugh.

“One could have guessed that.”

She sobers up pretty quickly after that, probably her thoughts with Illya again. In one gulp she empties her glass and gets up from the table. She stumbles towards the bed and lets herself fall onto it. Napoleon puts her glass away and turns out the lights, when she doesn’t move again.

He slips into the bathroom, but as soon as he’s in front of the mirror, the motivation to do his usual routine leaves him. He looks awful to say the least. Too little sleep is written on his face, his hair is a mess and his skin looks pasty in the light of the bathroom. Averting his eyes from his image, he does the barest minimum before stripping down to his undershirt and boxers. He leaves his robe hanging and leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t bother with putting on his usual sleeping cloths before slipping between the covers.

The sheets are cold against his skin and a shiver runs through him. He rolls to his side, facing away from Gaby and waits for it to pass. His thoughts wander back to Illya. He wonders if he’s cold as well, If he’s hurt, if he’s alone.

Arms sneak around his neck unexpectedly. Before he can so much as turn his head, Gaby’s front is pressed against his back, her legs pushing against and between his. The heat from her stops the small shivers and he can feel himself relax into her touch. Gaby’s breath is a whisper against his neck, moving the soft hairs of his nape.

“It’s going to be alright.”

Napoleon hums and tries not to feel like the worst person to have ever walked the face of the earth.

He’s not very successful.

 

* * *

“I hate you for this.”

Gaby’s words are no surprise, but they doesn’t miss their aim. Maybe they only sting, because Napoleon knows, while they are wrapped in a somewhat dry joke, that they are meant seriously.

Napoleon steps into his shoes and tries not to let it show. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you earlier. The meeting didn’t occur to me until last night.”

Technically that isn’t even a lie, but Napoleon knows that is only a cheap try to make himself feel better about the whole thing.

Gaby looks at him with her deep brown eyes and he knows that she knows something is up. Why she doesn’t call him out on it is a mystery of itself. Their fight crosses his mind. Maybe she doesn’t because she trusts him to tell her, and doesn’t that thought fit so well, together with all the other guilty parts of him that Napoleon needs to ignore for this to work.

“You could let me put a tracker in your pocket.”

Napoleon sighs. “You know I can’t.”

With the professionalism he expects Avery to work, he will get searched before he can get to anyone. And it’s not like Gaby doesn’t know the address herself. He left Avery’s card on the table for her, which she glares at since he told her about the meeting this morning.

Napoleon rights his coat, patting down the pockets for his wallet and the keys to the loft. Gaby steps away from the kitchen counter she leans against and walks over to him. He expects everything from trying to slip him a tracker to slap him across the face from her, instead she makes him bend down and presses her lips to his temple. He can remember her doing that with Illya before he went out two days ago. Her smile is just as hesitant as his when she lets him up again.

“Remember, you’ve got five hours before I come and get you, no second longer.”

Napoleon gave up trying to talk her out of it and nods obediently. He still doesn’t like it, but he has to admit, that it makes sense. If they were on any other mission, Napoleon would probably let the time pass on purpose, just to see her coming for him acting as the jealous wife.

She lets her hands run over his shoulders to flatten out wrinkles, which aren’t there.

“Stay safe.”

He captures her hand and presses a soft kiss on her fingers. “I will try my utmost.”

Gaby nods, then steps away, so she doesn’t stand between him and the door anymore. Napoleon is quick to leave the loft, before his conscience gets the upper hand.

The cab he called is already waiting for him in front of the building. He decided against driving himself, so that Gaby still has a car if she should need one and Avery doesn’t get to see theirs.

He nods to the driver when he gets in and gives him the address. Although the streets are not frozen over anymore they need just as long as they did last night because of the traffic.

Avery’s home seems even larger in daylight. They open the front gates when they arrive, so that Napoleon only has to climb a few steps to reach the door. There is an old-fashioned bell next to a modern installation. Napoleon rings the bell just to see, if it still works.

It does and after a few seconds the doors open wide. He is greeted by a maid, rather pretty and in her twenties. Napoleon throws her a charming smile, but she only glances at him before averting her gaze and looks to the ground. Napoleon keeps the smile up, when he enters.

“Mr. Avery is expecting me.”

The maid nods and leads the way. The interior of the mansion is just as impressive as the exterior. The corridors are full of paintings and sculptures, rich carpets cover the floor. Napoleon notes which pieces he would steal more out of a habit than anything.

It doesn’t take too long, before he is lead into a salon. The maid points to a small tray at the side of the room, where a few bottles and fresh glasses are assembled. “Mr. Avery will be here shortly. Please feel free to pick something to drink.”

Napoleon nods and smiles at her once again, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Without another word she leaves the salon and closes the door behind her. Napoleon lets out a small sigh and looks around the room. It’s nothing unusual in here, a couch, two armchairs, a flat table between them. Napoleon walks over to the assembled drinks. He pours himself a scotch just as he would in the club. He picks it up, but doesn’t do anything more with it than carrying it around with him. He learned his lesson.

On the other side of the room is another set of armchairs by the large windows. The table is higher and a chess board is set up between them. He doesn’t know why, but something about it sets him on the edge.

He’s about to inspect it further, when the door opens. He turns around with one of his faked smiles.

Avery looks like he did at the club, when he enters. Well groomed, well dressed and surrounded by an aura that makes Napoleon want to flee the room.

Napoleon meets him halfway to shake his hand.

“Mr. Avery. I’m glad that you would see me on such short notice.”

Avery smiles as well and takes Napoleon’s extended hand with a firm grip. “Of course, Mr. Fleming.” He holds it a second longer than necessary. Napoleon’s smile doesn’t falter, though. Avery points to the armchairs. “Please sit. I see you already fixed yourself a drink.”

Napoleon raises his glass slightly while he steps around the flat table to sit down. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Avery doesn’t follow him, but walks over to the liquor.

“No, not at all. I like to provide.”

When the man pours himself a scotch from the same bottle Napoleon took and takes a sip, Napoleon dares to do the same. The scotch is unsurprisingly very good, but Napoleon can’t really enjoy it. He tries to shake the feeling of Avery’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t quite manage it.

Avery joins him at the table and sits down on the couch instead of the other armchair. He sits closer to Napoleon now, closer than he was in the club. Napoleon has to turn his head slightly to face him. Avery’s gaze rests on him, while he takes another slow sip, his eyes wandering down a little before settling on Napoleon’s eyes again.

Napoleon is about to open his mouth, but Avery beats him to it.

“Partial heterochromia, isn’t it?”

There are very few people who manage to catch Napoleon off guard, but he shouldn’t be surprised that Avery is one of them.

“Pardon me?”

Avery chuckles, his scrutiny almost unbearable by now.

“The brown spot in your eyes. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Avery takes another slow sip, his glass almost empty by now. “Rather beautiful.”

After an awkward moment of silence, Napoleon forces up a chuckle and takes a rather large gulp, almost finishing his drink in one go. Something doesn’t feel right, hasn’t since the first time he met the man at the club. Napoleon lets the rest of his drink swirl in his glass, before getting up.

“I think I’ll take another.”

Avery smiles at him, finishes his own drink and hands him his now empty glass.

“Do me a favor and fix me a second as well.”

With a rather forced smile Napoleon nods and reaches for his glass. He’s not quite sure, if their finger brush together by accident or not.

As soon as Napoleon turns his back to him, his mask falls. His eyes dart around the room, looking for cameras or anything suspicious really, so he can maybe cut this short. He pours them another two scotches when the chess board on the other table catches his attention again. He hands Avery his drink, but doesn’t sit down next to him again. Instead he slowly walks over to the other table at the windows. He looks out for a few moments, before letting his gaze shift casually to the chessboard.

“You play chess?”

A small chuckle. “Not yet. I’m waiting for my partner to take me up on an offer.”

Napoleon hums as he observes the board a little longer. It’s obviously used, but in good condition, nothing cheap but without any decoration to distract from the game. He’s about to turn back around to Avery when one of the white pawns catches his attention. It has a slightly different color, standing a little taller than the others. Napoleon picks it up and turns it around. On the underside is a stylized P.

P for Peril. Napoleon knows, because he drew it himself. He got the pawn after Illya lost one in a hurried packing. He’s been annoyed because of the marking just as Napoleon thought he would be, but he kept it.

Carefully Napoleon sets it back down. The realization hits him hard, the dots connecting and painting a nasty picture. He can feel Avery watching him again, but he can’t turn around yet. This is without doubt the set that’s been taken from Illya’s hotel rooms. It’s been Avery all along and they had no idea. He needs to make a plan to get out of here, preferably taking Illya directly with him, but his thoughts are still caught on the fact, that the person they’ve been chasing is the same that chased them.

Avery’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife.

“A rather specific request you made yesterday.”

Napoleon turns around at that, he has to, his face carefully blank. There’s no use keeping up the charade. Napoleon’s game was up the second Avery met him at the club, probably even before that. For a second Napoleon wonders why he played along all this time, but he doesn’t want to think about the possible answers.

Avery is still smiling, that odd glint in his eyes back with full force.

“Makes me wonder, if you had someone in mind?”

Napoleon doesn’t answer. For a few seconds they just stare at each other, unmoving, until Avery reaches under the table. Napoleon can hear the click of a pushed button. Only a few seconds later heavy footsteps sound through the door. About five men Napoleon guesses, most likely armed.

Avery stopped smiling, but his gaze is still intense and resting on Napoleon.

“ _I want to break him, make him beg for mercy and give him none._ Those were your words, weren’t they? There’s a little truth in every good lie they say and yours was excellent. Does he know, how you think about him?”

The door opens behind Avery and six men enter the room. Napoleon knows he should at least glance at them to judge how well they are equipped, but he can’t tear his eyes from Avery, letting his contempt bleed through his mask. If he had any chance to make a move before the men shoot him, he would grab Illya’s chessboard and smash the man’s face.

Avery smirks, obviously satisfied. “Well, as I mentioned before, I don’t like to share.”

He takes a final sip from his glass and stands up. With a few strokes he smooths out his suit.

“Sadly I do have a few matters to attend to and can’t keep you company all day, but you’ll get used to it, I’m sure. I’ll come back to you later for some real fun. Make yourself comfortable until then.”

He waves his hand once to the men still standing in the doorway. In unison they step through the door and spread out through the room, taking up positions on every corner or possible escape route.

Avery looks around approvingly for a second, then turns to leave the room. The guard at the door steps aside and holds it open for him.

Avery stops shortly in the doorway and looks back at Napoleon over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to fulfill your request, but the least I can do is let you watch.”

Napoleon doesn’t give Avery the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. After a few moments of silence, Avery hums and walks on. The guard closes the door behind him quietly.

Now that Avery is gone, Napoleon half expected the men to attack him, but they stay silent and unmoving where they are. He notes their gear and counts their weapons, both visible and what Napoleon suspects to be hidden. Guns, knives, batons, some wear brass knuckles over their gloves. Even if Napoleon could get his hands on some weapons, it certainly wouldn’t be enough.

Napoleon pulls out a chair from the table with Illya’s set and sits down. He raises his glass to the guard closest to him and takes a sip. There’s nothing else he can do for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implicit threats of rape/forced voyeurism 
> 
> Translation:  
> "Scheiße" is German for "shit"


	12. Chapter 12

There’s a clock hanging over the kitchen-counter. Gaby never really noticed it until today. Maybe it is because it has never been this silent in the loft or maybe it’s because she’s stuck with doing nothing for at least three hours and fifty-seven minutes. She should have forced Solo to wear a tracker. And five hours is definitely too long. 

The December air is just as unforgiving as she remembers it from two nights ago. She considers putting on another pullover. Maybe she could steal one of Illya’s turtlenecks. Or she could stop being overly paranoid and close the window again. Solo left just an hour ago and still she listens to every car passing the building. He’s probably not coming back for at least another hour.

She tears her gaze away from the clock and focuses on the phone again. It’s a rather easy fix, replacing a few cables, screwing the housing together again. It will still look a bit banged up, but considering who ripped it out of the wall, it should consider itself lucky to have survived at all. 

She works in silence. She considered turning the radio on or listen to one of her records, but she doesn’t own the right kind of music for that. Absently she wonders, which kind of music would be appropriate for waiting for their partners coming home from the mansion of the head of a worldwide human trafficking ring. She doubts anyone wrote a song about that particular situation. 

Her fingers start to grow cold while the temperature in the loft constantly drops. She gets up to pick something out of their shared dresser, when she hears it. 

A car, from the sound of it a rather big one, comes to halt in front of their building. Gaby instantly is over by the window and looks the few stories down to the streets.

It’s not a cab, but a black Ford. Only one man gets out from behind the wheel. He’s well dressed, but rather average looking. He looks at something down in his hand, then back to the building. Gaby frowns and watches him go to the door. Only a few moments later the doorbell rings. Gaby doesn’t leave her spot at the window, but after a minute someone is down on the streets to let the man in. 

Gaby leaves the window and moves to the door. She opens it silently and listens for noises in the staircase. She can hear two men talking in the staircase. Their voices get a little distorted by the echoing off the walls, but she hears enough to guess that the man is here for her and not the elderly couple on the second floor. 

She closes the door without a sound again and goes for the suitcase they keep under the bed. She pulls out one of the smaller guns and assembles it. Illya had her practice it so many times she could probably do it one-handed and blind. She screws a silencer on it and puts the suitcase back under the bed. 

The metal feels both familiar and strange in her hands. She had plenty of shooting practice at the range, but she never had to shoot at people before. Her partners are entirely to blame for that though, always shoving her to the sidelines given the opportunity. Idiots, both of them. Of course it’s way better, that she has to use her gun the first time now when neither of them are with her. 

Her inner grumbling is interrupted by the knock on her door. The complete silence after that tells her, that the man is listening just as hard as she is. To her surprise he speaks first.

“Mrs. Fleming? This is Thomas Palmer. I’m a friend of your husband.”

Gaby needs a second to recognize the name. He’s the man who accompanied Avery to the club. Gaby considers her options. Palmer isn’t likely to leave her alone. She wonders how he got the address, but then again Solo drove with a cab to Avery. The price of a simple address isn’t too high and cab drivers can always use a little extra money. 

She takes a deep breath to make her voice sound calm. “I’m sorry Mr. Palmer, but my husband isn’t at home.” 

She hears Palmer laugh lightly through the door, which he probably thinks sounds charming. 

“I’ve hoped so, Mrs. Fleming. Would you be so kind and let me in?”

Gaby positions herself next to the door, one hand on the doorknob, the other firmly grasping her gun.

With a quick turn of her wrist she unlocks the door. She’s not surprised, when Palmer rushes in violently. If she stood behind the door, he would have knocked her down with that. Instead steps in behind him and uses his own momentum to bring the man to fall. She’s on him after not even a second, her gun pressed palpably to his neck. Fortunately he’s smart enough to freeze at that. Absently she hears the front door fall shut behind her. She presses her gun a little harder against his neck.

“I guess we can skip the formalities.”

She feels the man shrug under her. “I would have suggested the same. Your husband sends his regards. If he even is your husband.”

Gaby keeps her voice calm. “Where is he?”

Palmer has the nerves to chuckle under her. “Probably in the cell next to your Russian friend. Is he your lover? Does your so-called husband know?”

Gaby ignores what the man says mostly. There are cells, but they located Illya last night in Avery’s mansion. There should be enough space to install something like that. 

Without prompting the man chuckles. “Or maybe he’s really your husband and the Russian is his lover? Maybe his call last night wasn’t just a charade then.”

Gaby tightens her grip on both the man and the gun. “Which call?”

Another chuckle. “Oh you didn’t know that he called us with a rather graphic description?”

Of course he called them. God help her, if she gets Solo in her hands, she’s going to kill him for that. He arranged the meeting, full well knowing that Illya was in their clutches. He lied to her face. 

She swallows her anger. First get them back home safe, then kill Solo. “When does Avery sell them?”

“Oh he’s quite eager to keep one of them, maybe both. He thought about bringing you in, completing the set.”

Oddly enough that she’s a target herself doesn’t really matter to her. It’s good to know, that they are probably still in the mansion by the time she arrives, but dread fills her nonetheless. If they were sold, they would still be relatively unharmed. Now all bets are off on that. 

“That’s why I’m here.”

With a sudden jerk, Palmer throws her off sideways. Gaby’s grip on the gun is still tight. While she gets shoved off, she aims, pointing the gun directly at the man’s head. In this exact moment Palmer turns his head and looks her in the eye. Gaby hesitates. It lasts only a second, but it’s enough for Palmer to grab her hand and force it away from him. 

It barely takes a moment for Palmer to flip them over, pinning Gaby on her back with his body weight. He smacks her hand with the gun against the ground four times until she lets go of it. With both of her wrists pinned by one of his hands he leans down a little, until she can feel his breath on her face. 

“But maybe I’ll just keep you for myself. I like the fierce ones.” 

Gaby shortly glares at the man, before closing her eyes. She takes a deep breath and relaxes her limbs. In the semi-darkness behind her lids it is easier to picture her elsewhere. She’s not in Solo’s secret loft anymore, but in London, the new U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. It’s not a stranger pinning her down, it’s Illya, and they are not alone. Solo is crouching right next to them. This isn’t a mission, this is practice. 

Slowly she opens her eyes again. She can hear Solo in her ears, going with her through the ordeal for the fifth time. _Remember, a nose is no match for a forehead._

Palmer still grins down at her, his eyes shortly flickering down to her lips. She can feel the shift in his muscles as he leans down. Gaby just needs to wait for a fraction, until he’s too close to draw his head back fast enough. The man lets out a startled howl, when Gaby crushes his nose with her skull. His grip loosens, as he shoots up again. It’s enough to get one of her hands free. 

She knows without looking that the gun is just an inch too far away for her to grab. 

_If you can’t reach a weapon, use what you’ve got._

What she’s got is her free hand.

_Go for the eyes._

Without hesitation she reaches up and sinks her nails in.

Palmer screams and lets go of her. Gaby’s fingers find the gun again. Palmer still screams, but does little else than clutching his left eye with both of his hands. Blood is running through his fingers. 

Instead of firing, she uses the handle and smashes it against the man’s temple. Palmer sags to the side and stays there, motionless and quiet. Immediately she presses two fingers to the side of his neck. 

He’s not dead. Gaby doesn’t know if she’s relieved or not. 

There are hurried steps outside their front door and for a moment Gaby thinks this was just the start, but there’s insistent knock and the voice of the man owning the apartment below them.

“Hello? Is everything alright?”

Gaby exhales slowly. The man living below them is called Miller or something. Seemed nice enough, although Gaby rarely talked to him. She takes in the state of herself and the man and makes a quick decision. She doesn’t have the time to bother herself with what to do with Palmer.

When she opens the door and tells her neighbor about the strange man attacking her in her _home_ and that she’s _alone_ and her phone is broken, it really doesn’t take much to convince the man to get Palmer out of the loft and hold him in his own apartment until the police arrives. Gaby thanks him profoundly and feels a little bad, that she won’t be here when the police arrives to back up the story. He doesn’t even notice when Gaby pockets Palmer’s key ring. 

As soon as she’s alone, she grabs one of their empty duffle bags and loads it with everything she might need and more. After that she pulls out the case with their weapons again. Not even five minutes have passed when she shuts the door behind her, the case in her hand, the duffle bag thrown over her shoulder. 

Palmer’s car is waiting for her in front of the building, so she’s barely a few seconds on the streets before packing everything in the trunk and getting behind the wheel.

She doesn’t give herself even one second to appreciate the car and takes off. She’s only been there once, but the way to Avery’s mansion is still clear in her mind. It’s like the car drives itself exactly where she wants to go. 

The city passes in a blur, as do the suburbs. Avery’s mansion is not yet visible, but she can feel herself practically be pulled towards it. 

It takes almost all the ride there, for sense to come back to her. She stomps down on the brakes. She’s lucky that no one is on the streets behind her. 

Avery got a hold of Illya, most likely Solo as well. She’d be stupid to try to go in there alone. Still the next base of an organization with ties to U.N.C.L.E. is too far away to send help immediately. Back-up isn’t going to arrive until tomorrow and that only if she calls now. She hits the steering wheel with her fists. It doesn’t really matter if Palmer told her the truth about Avery’s intentions. She’s not going to leave her partners with that man for a second longer than she has to. 

After another forceful punch, she grabs the steering wheel again and turns the car around. She doesn’t have to drive for long to find what she’s looking for. The phone box is right on the main street leading through the first suburb she gets to. She pulls over and parks directly in front of it. She rummages through the glove compartment of Palmer’s car and finds some loose change. Clutching the coins in her fists, she gets out of the car. 

She rounds the phone box once, despite how unlikely it might be that someone tampered with it. Still it’s protocol. She gets in and checks both the speaker and the dial for unusual scratches, but finds nothing. 

She doesn’t use the UNCLE emergency line, neither the number of the next closest base. Her fingers fly over the buttons. She doesn’t even need to look at what she’s doing. She holds the speaker to her ear and waits for the line to connect. 

“Hello?” His voice is warm, the vowels slightly bent by his accent.

“Hello Mr. Waverly.”

“Miss Teller, you calling is quite a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The use of his name tells him that she can speak freely and is not in immediate danger, still he already sounds a little concerned. She doesn’t know how he knows something is up, but he always does. 

“I need back-up.”

She can practically hear his frown through the phone, so she continues speaking. “It turns out, our mark himself likes to collect. He’s got Kuryakin and Solo.”

There’s a short silence, then she hears the telltale-clicking of a pen. 

“Give me a name, please.”

Every bit of warmth is gone from his voice, just a polite front left. Good. 

“Richard Avery.”

“Anything more?”

Gaby rattles down his phone number and address, with a short description of the mansion.

“Very well. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you sir.”

There’s a short silence between them, before Waverly speaks up again.

“You will wait for us before you go in, Agent Teller, that’s an ord—“

Gaby smacks down the speaker on the phone and hangs up before Waverly could get out the word. Not-quite plausible deniability is still better than nothing. 

She gets behind the wheel again to continue her way. The winter sun sets early and the sky is already beginning to redden as the gates of Avery’s mansion appear in front of her. She still has a few hours on her hand, and she’s going to use them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and implicit threats of rape


	13. Chapter 13

They took his watch. 

Illya should have noticed it sooner, but the constant burn around his wrist, where the cuff tore into his skin, distracted him. It’s barely a throb now, only registering in the back of his mind. The cell is too small to pace with all the clutter lying around, so he sits on the remains of the thin mattress, which covered the cot he tore apart. 

They took his watch and his wrist feels odd without its weight. 

He’s never lost it on a mission before Rome, but this is the second time within half a year, more often if he counts the Cowboy lifting it for fun. He’s been with U.N.C.L.E. already half a year. It both feels longer and shorter than that. Shorter because the time flew by, mission after mission with little free time in between, longer because it feels like he’s been a team with Gaby and Solo forever. 

And now he’s going to lose them. Because Solo broke his promise and Gaby is disgusted with him. 

His eyes suddenly sting and his hand moves to his wrist to find comfort, but there is no clock-face for his fingers to trace, no leather band to stroke. The stinging in his eyes gets worse.

On some level he knows that he’s been drugged, maybe it is still the effect of the syringe, maybe they injected him with something else while he was still out. It’s been hours already, maybe even a full day, but he can’t tell because they took his watch and he feels so strange and he wants to go home. 

Although he doesn’t know where that is anymore. He failed the KGB and they let him go. He failed to protect his mother and then she died. There is nothing he can go back to.

And now he failed his team. Maybe they won’t even look for him. Maybe they don’t care about the tracker and just leave him here. It would be okay. 

He stares at the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling just outside his cell. It reminds him of Rome, the chamber where he found Solo strapped down, still twitching from the electricity running through him seconds ago. He remembers the smell, sweat and searing flesh. 

Yes, it’s better if they don’t come for him. 

He asks himself why he’s here after all, why it’s him. His left hand finds his thigh, where his clothes cover a scar. It’s not his worst by far, a tiny slice a little over his knee. Maybe there is something wrong with him, something people pick up unconsciously, marking him. 

Illya can’t hold back his flinch, when a door gets pushed open roughly, bouncing back against the wall. The sound of various pairs of steps replace the silence outside his cell. Illya doesn’t see them yet, but he stands up instantly. He won’t sit around and just wait for them to make a move. He will fight as long as he can. 

The first two men coming into his view are well armed guards. He counts different knives and guns, when his captor appears behind them and he’s not alone. Illya knows his expression slipped, but he can’t help it. 

Behind him Solo walks in, accompanied by two other guards. He looks oddly… normal. He’s wearing one of his suits, his hair slicked back, his cufflinks shimmering in the dim light of the hallway. It’s like he walks into his loft after a night out and not in front of the cell Illya’s been held in. He even dares to smile at him. Illya knows it’s not his real smile, but it’s not less infuriating because of that. 

“What are you doing here?”

Illya clamps his mouth shut and looks over to his captor. What if he just blew Solo’s cover? But the man just smiles pleased as he looks back to Illya. He knows. But what is this about then? For a second he considers Solo not only betraying him to Gaby, but to this man as well. He shakes his head to get rid of that idea. Solo wouldn’t do that. Of course not. Would he?

Solo nods over to his captor. “Mr. Avery and I wanted to discuss business, but it turns out he’s not really interested in the things I had to offer. At least not the money.”

Illya turns his head to the other man. Avery is his name, Solo said. Illya hasn’t heard that name before, but he guesses it’s the man Solo went to meet at the club at the riverside. His eyes widen slightly, as he finally understands. Or at least begins to. He still doesn’t know, why Avery targeted him. 

Avery chuckles shortly. “I told you, little bird, I would be prepared. And see who was caught in my net.” He takes a step in Solo’s direction, slowly reaching for him. Solo doesn’t even flinch, as Avery traces the line of his collar, smoothing out wrinkles that aren’t there. 

“As you can see, he’s completely unharmed, although you weren’t exactly nice to me, little bird.”

He lets go of Solo, who is instantly flanked by the guards as a silent threat. Illya looks between Solo and Avery back and forth. Solo looks as calm as ever if not for the slight tension in his jaw, a small tell he didn’t manage to lose yet. 

Avery faces Illya again, a smile on his lips. “I don’t want you to think that I am unfair. I’m giving you another chance.” He extends his hand towards Illya, his fingertips just reaching through the bars. 

“Come here.”

Illya looks at the hand pointing towards him, then back to Avery’s face. The smile on his lips looks twisted. Illya swallows once, glancing at his partner. He seems unarmed and there are five men against him, if he tried anything. 

Avery’s eye twitches once. “I don’t like to repeat myself little bird. How I treat your friends depends only on you. Come here and be nice.”

The guards on Solo’s side shift slightly. Out of the corner of his eyes Illya can see metal flashing. It was too short to know what it was, maybe a gun, maybe a knife, maybe something else altogether that Illya can’t think of right now. He needs to move, do anything, but it feels like his feet are drilled to the floor. He feels the bare wall pressing against his back, so he did move at some point. When did he step back? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, but it doesn’t help. He needs to fight, but he doesn’t know how. 

A small, deep chuckle disrupts his thoughts, so familiar it could have been his own. Both his and Avery’s head whip around to Solo. Seemingly unconcerned by the armed men at his side he takes a step towards Avery, who looks at him with curiosity. 

There’s another smile on Solo’s lips, again faked but different. 

“I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Avery, but my friend here isn’t the nicest person.” Illya watches his partner walk on, stopping not even a foot away from Avery, their chests just shy of brushing against each other. 

“I however am.”

Avery and Solo stare at each other, neither of them attempting to step back. A slow smile spreads on Avery’s face.

Illya doesn’t understand. Avery raises a hand and cups Solo’s cheek. His thumb strokes lazily over the side of his face, before moving lower, tracing his lips. Solo opens his mouth willingly as Avery’s finger presses it, his lips closing softly around the digit. 

Illya’s stomach sinks as Avery’s other hand lands on Solo’s shoulder, guiding him down to his knees almost gently. Illya averts his eyes, as his partner lets his hands slide up Avery’s legs until he finds the buckle of his belt. The clicking of the metal pin and the faint creaking of leather sounds unnaturally loud. He resists the urge to cover his ears. 

There’s the rustle of clothes followed by a wet sound. Illya can feel bile rising in his throat. The sound goes on with the underlying rasps* of heavy breathing. Illya squeezes his eyes shut and swallows once to keep from throwing up. 

A breathy laugh rings in his ears. “Look at that, little bird. What a clever mouth your friend has.” 

Illya doesn’t look. He can’t. He doesn’t know if he shakes his head or if the room is spinning behind his closed eyes. 

Solo makes a barely audible sound, then there is silence. Illya doesn’t even dare to hope it’s over, as he hears Avery’s cold voice.

“Look or I’ll let my men take turns with him.” 

Slowly Illya raises his head and blink his eyes open. Even the sparse light of the single bulb feels too bright. 

Solo is still on his knees with Avery’s hand in his hair. His lips are stretched around Avery’s cock, his fingers clutching Avery’s thighs for purchase. The man didn’t even pull his pants down. Solo doesn’t meet Illya’s gaze, doesn’t even look in his direction. Avery does. He smirks at Illya while he starts to pet Solo’s head. “He looks fantastic on his knees, don’t you think? Like he was born to do this.” 

Illya looks back to his partner, trying to find any sign of reaction. A twitch or even a blink, but there is nothing. Now Illya wishes, that he would look at him, even for the briefest moment. 

“Answer me.”

A word escapes Illya’s lips. He doesn’t know what he said, but it causes Avery to chuckle. His fingers loosen their grip of Solo’s hair a little and his partner starts moving again. His head bobs back and forth a few times, his lips gliding wetly over the shaft, before he pulls back and runs his tongue over the head of Avery’s cock. 

A barely audible whisper makes Illya look to the side, where Avery’s men are leaning against the bars of an empty cell. They are all watching shamelessly, leering at Solo, mouthing words and making crude gestures to each other. 

Illya flinches at Avery’s sudden moan. There’s a slurping sound as Solo hollows his cheeks and sucks. Avery moans louder, before letting out a breathless laughter. 

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Such a whore.”

The words hit Illya like a punch in the gut. He can see that Solo’s rhythm falters for the split of a second.

_Not everyone enjoys whoring around like you._

“Stop.”

The word falls from Illya’s lips without his consent, but now that it was out, he can’t stop himself. His anger wraps itself around his core, almost comforting in its familiarity. The rage builds itself until it’s running through his veins, flooding his lungs. 

“Stop!”

Illya blinks once and he’s suddenly on the other end of his cell, his hands fists around the bars of his cell. The metal doesn’t give, but that doesn’t stop Illya from trying to bend it out of his way. 

“Stop touching him! Stop looking at him! Cowboy, STOP!”

Miraculously the Cowboy does. He draws back and turns to Illya, his eyes a little widened, flashing blue in the dim light. 

The momentary silence is interrupted by a harsh slap. Solo’s head whips back around from the force of the blow. Avery looks down to him, a certain cold creeping back into his features. Slowly both of his hands close around Solo’s head again, guiding him back. Illya screams in frustration as Solo doesn’t even try to resist. The bars in his hands don’t yield under his strength. There is nothing he can do, but watch as his partner’s mouth closes around Avery’s cock again. 

Before Solo has the chance to move, Avery’s hands tighten in his hair, holding him in place. He rolls his hips once, making Solo breath hitch. 

“So you’re the Cowboy.”

A shallow thrust. Solo gags for a second.

“I should have guessed that.” 

Illya’s fingers close impossibly tighter around the bars, his knuckles cracking, a sting starting to shoot up his arms, as Avery repeats the motion a few times. Avery doesn’t give Solo even an inch to control his reaction, seemingly aiming to hit the back of his throat. 

“Time for your first lesson.”

With a violent shove he buries himself in Solo’s mouth to the hilt, forcing him to take all of him down his throat. The pained noise Solo makes gets cut off. Illya screams for him.

Avery lets out a cruel laugh and draws back, only to do it again. Solo squeezes his eyes shut as his air is cut off. With a pleased smile he looks down at the man on his knees, unable to draw back or breathe.

“Nobody touches what’s mine, not even you, my beautiful Raven.”

Avery pulls out just long enough for Solo to gasp once around his dick, before he’s choking him again. _Nobody touches what’s mine_ , again and again, sometimes emphasized with rhythmical thrusts. Illya can barely hear him though, his own voice is ringing too loud in his ears.

At this point Illya doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth, not even which language he speaks, if the words are threats or pleas. It doesn’t matter anyway. Avery keeps on thrusting violently, making Solo gag and choke on his dick every time he forces it down his throat. He even seems encouraged by Illya, his movements getting more erratic with every passing moment. 

Illya’s voice gives out first. Avery comes just a few seconds later, buried so deep that Solo’s nose disappeared between the folds of his open pants. He holds him there, not giving him the chance to withdraw or even take a breath for what feels like an eternity. When Avery finally takes a step back, Solo instantly falls forward, catching himself with his hands to remain at least sort of upright. The wheezing gasps he takes in-between coughing fits sound painful. 

“Behave and I will leave him with you until I come back.”

Illya doesn’t even look at Avery, his eyes still on his partner kneeling on the floor. The last remains of the will to spite his captor dissolve into nothing. He peels his fingers off of the bars and takes a few steps back, hands raised in front of his chest. If this is the price to keep Solo here with him, to keep him _safe_ , Illya’s willing to pay. 

He doesn’t see, if Avery nods or doesn’t, but one of the men steps forward and roughly pulls Solo up on his feet. His partner shoots him a small glare, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and running a hand over his clothes. His breathing is normal again and strangely his posture as well as he shakes off the guards hands with an annoyed glance in their direction. It’s disconcerting to see, as if he just brushed shoulders with an unpleasant stranger and wasn’t violated in front of an audience. 

Illya retreats even further back, not to cause Avery to change his mind, as he opens the door to his cell. Solo steps through it, the man locking him in the second he’s able to close the door. Solo stops after a few steps and looks back over his shoulder. 

Avery smirks at him, before he turns to leave, taking his men with him. Illya and Solo stay where they are until they hear a heavy door fall shut. 

Illya doesn’t even have the time to blink before Solo is standing right in front of him. His voice sounds painfully hoarse.

“Are you alright, Peril?” 

Why does he ask him that? Illya is _fine_ , he’s not the one who was… who was raped. He tries to say so, but his voice cracks before he can get a word out. 

Solo reaches up and lays his hand on Illya’s cheek. Illya flinches back, but his partner shushes him and turns his head slightly. There’s an odd wetness his thumb rubs away. Illya averts his head at the realization, that he has been crying. Now that he noticed it, there is the telltale burning in his eyes, the heaviness on his chest. And Solo’s hand is still on his cheek, guiding him gently back to face him. Why would he even want to touch anybody after what just happened. 

“Illya open your eyes, please. Look at me.”

Illya does as he’s told, although he doesn’t really want to. Only the slight rawness of Solo’s lips and the state of his hair give him away, but it’s more than enough to invoke the recent memories in detail. Solo frowns a little up to him. 

“Your pupils are blown wide. Do you know what they gave you? Or how long ago?”

Illya shakes his head slightly, not throwing his partner’s hand off.

Solo lets his eyes wander down on Illya. When he finally lets go of Illya’s face, the air feels cold against Illya’s skin. Solo’s fingers carefully close around Illya’s hand and lift it up to take a better look. Illya has already forgotten about the wound circling his wrist. Solo examines it tenderly, before looking up to Illya again, his eyes full of genuine concern.

“Did they hurt you?”

Illya almost laughs at that, instead he feels another tear running down his cheek. Pathetic.

“They hurt _you_.” 

Solo looks puzzled for a second, before he catches himself again. “I’m fine, really.”

Illya knows he’s lying, he has to be. Somehow it makes Illya angry, because he should be the collected one, the one to offer comfort, when he couldn’t even protect his partner, and he instantly feels guilty for everything. Not being able to stop Avery, for not being able to help and for getting angry. 

Hearing his name interrupts his thoughts. Solo still holds his hand, his fingers slightly squeezing Illya’s.

“Would you do something for me?”

Illya nods without hesitation. Whatever Solo asks him to do, Illya will do anything.

“Good. I want you to lie down. Can you do that?”

Illya frowns a little. Of course he can, but why would Solo want that? Still he looks sincere, so Illya doesn’t question it. He doesn’t let go of his partner’s hand as he takes him to the thin mattress in all the rubble. The mattress is narrow, but they will fit. Illya doesn’t think about what he does, as he guides Solo down first. His partner frowns a little at him, but doesn’t resist. Solo sinks down gracefully and arranges himself lying on his side. Illya follows him instantly, crowding him against the wall. Lying down on his side as well, there’s still barely an inch between him and Solo. 

“This isn’t exactly, what I had in mind.”

Illya freezes instantly. Solo’s right. This isn’t what he wanted, how could it be? Illya didn’t even ask. He’s about to get up again, when Solo moves towards him. His motions are slow and light, as if Illya’s the one who needs to be handled with caution. Illya doesn’t draw back as his partner moves in close, placing an arm around Illya’s middle, resting his forehead against his shoulder. Illya holds himself stiffly, not daring to move, then he hears a hoarse chuckle. 

“Still I’ll take what I can get.”

Illya’s mind is still reeling with what to do. He feels Solo exhale, his breath warm and a little moist against him. 

“Relax, Peril. It’s called contact comfort, you’re allowed to touch me back.”

Illya is still careful as he lays his arm around his partner’s shoulder. When Solo doesn’t flinch back, Illya sneaks his other arm under his partner’s head, so he rests on Illya’s biceps rather than on the ratty mattress. Solo hums silently and lets Illya rearrange him without resistance. 

It reminds Illya oddly of the night when he grabbed Gaby and pulled her against him. Solo feels nothing like her under his hands, but he’s just as solid, just as warm.

Surprisingly, Illya starts to relax against him. The weight of Solo’s arm around him and the feeling of his chest rising and falling against Illya calms him.

“Better?”

Illya nods against him. He can feel that Solo is here with him, that he’s safe. 

“Good.”

There’s a short silence between them, almost comfortable as it was at the loft. A few minutes pass. Even through his clothes, Solo’s body heat seems to spread through Illya, coursing through him. It is then, that Illya remembers the evening when they went to the club at the riverside. Not all of it, but he remembers shivering in the cold and Solo pulling him close. He remembers how Gaby and Solo brought him home, all gentle touches and friendly words. He remembers panicking and them comforting him and holding him through the night.

Solo swallows against him, pulling him out of his memories. 

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” His voice is still rough, after he clears his throat.

“Between men. It doesn’t have to hurt. You know that, right?”

Illya doesn’t answer. It’s not like there’s anything to say. Even if he’s right, Avery won’t do it any other way. Illya’s aware that by his actions earlier he made them vulnerable. Avery knows Illya cares for his partner, and he no doubt will use it against them. 

And Illya will let him. He won’t fight back, if they threaten to hurt his partner. He can endure this. Whatever Avery plans, he can and will endure this. Gaby is safe and knows where they are. He’s sure of that, because if Avery had her, he would have paraded her around already. They only need to hold out, until she gets to them. And he’s sure she can do it. There is only one thing for Illya to do while they wait. He wasn’t able to stop Avery before, but from now on he will keep his Cowboy safe, or at least as safe as he can, no matter what. It’s the least he can do. 

That is when he notices, that he no longer cares about their fight, not even if he has to leave the team. It will hurt, but as long as Gaby and Solo stay safe, he doesn’t care what happens to him. 

Solo’s fingers start to move against his back, slow, caressing over his stiff muscles. Illya didn’t even notice how he tensed. 

“It’s going to be alright.”

Illya hums. It will be, because he will make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-consensual drug use and rape.


	14. Chapter 14

Napoleon is nothing if not a man of opportunity. Make the best out of every situation, even if the best is still awful. Like enslaving himself for the CIA to avoid prison or lying down on a couch instead of trying to flee as he gets drugged by his enemy. 

The best he can do now is soaking up all the nice touches he can get. Who knows when Avery will be back and what the lunatic has up his sleeve. So he closes his eyes and edges a tiny bit closer to Illya. The reaction is immediate. Illya’s arms close around him even tighter, holding him against his chest. It’s an amazing sensation and nothing Napoleon earned, but he takes it anyway. He’s a thief after all. 

Illya’s hands feel cold even through the fabric of Napoleon’s clothes. It’s somewhat comforting, because it can’t be anyone else’s hands resting against him. It makes it easier to pretend for a while that the soreness of his throat was caused by someone else as well, somewhere else and in another context. 

He lets out a long breath against Illya’s chest. It’s not like what happened matters anyway. It was by far not Napoleon’s worst encounter and the memory will be indistinguishable from his other missions. Between the countless hands that touched him, a single one more doesn’t make a difference. It was not really a hard decision to go this route.

Still, the way Illya screamed his name wasn’t anything Napoleon expected. Neither did he expect the tears running down Illya’s face when he entered the cell. The way Illya looked at Napoleon with that kind of devastation had made a part of Napoleon hurt that was silent for years. It was stupid. 

It’s eerily quiet, after they stopped talking.

He managed to doze a little to make use of the time they are stuck here, but he can’t really rest with his nerves on the edge like now. Napoleon knows they are underground, but the silence feels like they are in the inside of their own coffin. Which is probably what Avery wanted. Still he made a mistake to let Napoleon stay with Illya. There hasn’t been a situation, where they didn’t come out on top yet. Sure it’s been a close call more than once, but they made it every time. This time will be no different.

“Illya?”

He both hears and feels the hum coming from his partner.

“We need a plan.”

There’s a short silence. 

“I have a plan.”

Napoleon withdraws a little, probably not even an inch, since Peril’s arms don’t give. 

“So would you like to share that plan with me?”

Illya stays silent. And for the first time since Rome, the silence between them is uncomfortable, which is strange considering they’ve been basically cuddling for hours. It takes only a few moments for Napoleon to think of why Peril is reluctant to share something with him. There is only one reason. He wishes he could have had the time to think of what to say beforehand or to have this conversation later, when they got out. It’s not such a big surprise, that his wishes don’t get fulfilled. He clears his throat.

“I didn’t tell Gaby anything.”

He can feel Illya twitch. His chest brushes against Napoleon’s as he takes a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter anymore, Cowboy.”

Napoleon pushes himself back, forcing Illya to loosen his hold until Napoleon can look at his face properly. “It matters to me.”

Illya looks at him with an unreadable expression. Napoleon holds his gaze unwavering. “What you think matters to me, Peril.”

“Then why—“ 

His partner’s words get cut off by the door opening. Instantly both withdraw from each other, Illya scrambling away to sit on the corner of the mattress. 

When Avery steps into view, they’re more than a foot apart, but he still smiles at them knowingly. He’s wearing a new suit, so it’s probably already morning. In his hands is a cane, giving him an old-fashioned, aristocratic air. 

Napoleon knows what this is about. This is a show of dominance, the man trying to establish his superiority. He beats down the urge to ball his fists. It won’t help them in the slightest. 

Avery is still accompanied by four, but not all of them are guards. Following Avery close behind is a rather short woman in an old-fashioned skirt blazer combination, her hair already greyish brown. Her glasses magnify her eyes almost comically. She’s carrying a leather bag and a chart. She doesn’t seem threatening, but neither did Rudi, so Napoleon keeps an eye on her.

Avery gives the guard to his right a small nod to open the door of their cell. Neither Illya nor Napoleon moves. They both know the other two guards have their hands on their guns. Whatever plan Illya’s is, it will probably work better with both of them in one piece. 

“I hope you slept well, my beautiful birds.”

In any other situation Napoleon would snort at the title, but after the last few weeks, the word bird makes his skin itch. 

As the guards enter the cell, Napoleon and Illya stand up simultaneously. 

Avery still smiles at them. “We need to change the rooms, so please stay calm while you’re escorted there. If you behave, nothing will happen to you.”

The guards bring out two sets of handcuffs. From what Napoleon can tell, they are not the cheap kind, but Napoleon is positive that he can manage to get them off. 

They don’t even make them turn around as they shackle their wrists. Napoleon tenses his muscles and sticks out his thumb to gain a little extra space. The guard either doesn’t notice or doesn’t know what Napoleon can accomplish with not even an inch more. He glances at Illya to let him know, that he can get out, but Illya doesn’t seem to pay attention to him. Napoleon fights a frown. They’ve been in situations like this before and never had a problem with silent communication, so why now? 

The guards flank them, as they lead them out of the cell, Avery and his companion walking in front of them. They leave the basement, but take a different route than when they brought Napoleon down to the cells. Napoleon tries to memorize the way while he subtly rotates his wrists. The guards don’t really pay attention to that, either too confident or too stupid. He glances at Peril again, who walks beside him. His partner stares right on, his eyes drilling into Avery’s back. 

This is probably the best chance they’re going to get. The woman doesn’t look like she could fight and Napoleon is not quite sure about Avery, but at least the man is unarmed. That makes the three guards against him and Peril. They’ve had worse odds. 

Napoleon waits until they round the next corner to give them a minimal advantage. With a practiced slide of his hands he dislocates the joint of his left thumb and slips out of the cuffs. He gets his right hand on the guard’s gun before they even notice that he’s freed himself. 

The man to his left goes down with a single shot. Napoleon has barely the time to aim for the next man before the other two guards draw their weapons. The next bullet out of his stolen gun barely grazes the arm of the man as he ducks to the side. 

Finally Illya seems to regain his form, kicking out the third guard’s legs as he raises his gun at Napoleon. They can win this. 

Napoleon leans a little to the side to aim for the last remaining guard, as something hot finds his neck. The burn only registers for the blink of an eye, before his muscles contract. He can’t even let out a yell as his whole body cramps up. A bullet is fired, as his finger accidentally squeeze the trigger. He can’t see if it hit someone as he goes to the ground, his arms twitching uselessly instead of breaking his fall.

He stays motionless on the ground, waiting for the sensation to pass, gasping for breath and squeezing his eyes shut. Slowly he regains control over his limbs again, his body tingling and aching in a familiar way. He’s been here before, only this time they didn’t bother strapping him down. 

He needs a few seconds to bottle up the panic rising in his chest. He’s not in Rome and he’s not secured to that damned chair waiting for a maniac to kill him slowly and painfully. With a hopefully silent groan he reaches up to his neck. There’s a burned patch of skin right below his hairline, pain radiating through his neck as he traces the outlines.

Carefully he sits up only to receive a hard slap that almost sends him right back down. His jaw is pounding either from the hit or his fall. Probably both. He blinks his eyes open to see Avery standing over him, his cane in his hands. Instead of the handle there are now two electrodes sticking out. Not only a cane then.

Avery smiles down at him, as someone would to their child after they did something spectacularly stupid. 

“You just won’t listen, will you?”

He brings his cane forward again. Napoleon can’t help but flinch back violently. His expression must have slipped as well, because Avery stops with curiosity written all over his face.

“You’re familiar with this, aren’t you.”

It’s not even a question, so Napoleon doesn’t answer. Avery smiles at him again, taking his cane in both hands. “I had this one custom made. Beautiful isn’t it? Enough power to make it sting, just shy of doing serious damage. What do you think, little bird?” Avery turns expectantly in Illya’s direction.

Illya doesn’t look at Avery. He looks at Napoleon with the same haunted expression he did, when he accidentally shocked him with Rudi’s chair. Napoleon holds his gaze and nods barely noticeable. He’s been better, but in the end he is fine. 

When the cuffs close around his wrists, the guard tightens them until the metal bites into his flesh. There’s no chance Napoleon can slip them like he did before. He gets hauled to his feet, as a few other guards come jogging down the corridor, apparently drawn towards them by the gun going off. 

Avery claps his hands once, obviously delighted. “Just in the right moment, gentlemen. We might need a bigger escort as long as our new sweet birds haven’t learned to behave.”

The new guards don’t even need a second until they are spreading out, now three of the men surrounding Illya and Napoleon each. Avery starts to chat with the older woman as they walk on. Napoleon knows he should pay attention to what they are saying, but he can’t. Instead he pointedly looks at Illya, who just won’t turn his head towards him. Napoleon doesn’t know what’s going on with his partner, but he doesn’t like it. 

A firm slap to his neck makes him turn finally turn his head away. The mansion is just as big as Napoleon remembered it, so they walk a few minutes and take two stairs, until they stop in front of a locked door. Or more like a barricade for all the bolts and additional locks in place. Avery produces a whole key-ring and opens it, one lock at a time, stepping through it first after.

The room they are led in probably was a salon once. The floor is made of dark wood, the walls a pleasant crème. Two old chandeliers spend light for the lack of windows. There’s a fireplace burning in the corner of the room with a few irons sticking out of it, making the air smell faintly of fire. A bare metal table next to a small tray is placed in the middle of the room, looking remotely like an operation table at the hospital, if not for the leather restraints. On the walls are metal rings fixed on different heights, a few others are dangling from the ceiling. Below some of them are dark spots on the wooden floor. The walls are lined with poles, running from the floor to the ceiling, giving the room a cage-like atmosphere. 

The woman accompanying Avery sets her bag down on the tray, unpacking some medical equipment and some tools Napoleon would rather not know what they do.

Avery turns around to them, nodding towards Illya and Napoleon. “The Falcon to the wall, the Raven from the ceiling.”

With a shove Napoleon gets pushed further into the room. There’s a short relief in-between the guards releasing his wrists from the too tight cuffs and them putting them back on, now looped through a ring hanging from the ceiling, making Napoleon raise his arms high over his head. He glances back at Peril, who gets cuffed to the wall with his hands behind his back. It doesn’t look too comfortable either, but they’ve been in worse places. Avery watches them with a content smile on his lips as the guards finally withdraw from them. Half of the men leave the room, the other half position themselves against the wall near the door. The woman returns to Avery’s side just a few moments later. 

“Everything is ready.” Avery nods at her, before turning to Napoleon and Illya again. 

“May I introduce my dear friend, Dr. Gladstone. She will see our Raven through the check-up and processing.”

Napoleon raises his eyebrow at Avery. He’s surprised, when Peril beats him to it. 

“What processing?”

Avery chuckles as he steps towards Napoleon. Napoleon decidedly doesn’t move a muscle, even as Avery stops uncomfortably close to him and lays a hand on his cheek. 

“It seems like our Raven can’t control himself and I don’t have the time to teach you both to behave.” He sighs. He’s close enough for Napoleon to feel his breath. “As much as it pains me to lose such an exquisite creature, you leave me no choice.” He smiles at Napoleon and pats his cheek once. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you to someone nice. Wasting you in a snuff would be a shame. I already have a few in mind, who would gladly take you.”

Napoleon blinks once, which is the only reaction to Avery’s words. Huh. Being sold is definitely a first.

“He stays with me.”

Napoleon tries to turn his head a little to look back at Peril, but Avery’s hand on his face prevents him. Still he can just picture Illya, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning holes. 

Avery laughs a little. “I’m sorry, little bird, but that’s not for you to decide.” 

“No. He stays.”

Napoleon hears the beginning of Illya growling, when he feels another wave of electricity running through him. It’s not as long as the last shock and not as intense, still it leaves him gasping. The hot pounding on his upper thigh leaves little to guess where Avery’s cane connected. He didn’t even notice him raising the cane. 

The man took a step back, probably not to get shocked himself. His voice is utterly cold again, slicing through the relative silence of Napoleon’s wheezing breaths. 

“I think it’s time for your second lesson. Don’t talk back.”

Napoleon slightly turns his head back to Illya. His partner’s fists are shaking with fury, but he presses his lips shut. Another shock makes him jerk around again. 

“Don’t.” 

Shock.

“Talk.” 

Shock.

“Back.”

Napoleon has barely the time to catch his breath as Avery aims at his hands. The current doesn’t travel as far through his body, but it’s more painful without the cloth of his pants, the electrodes burning away his skin layer after layer. Avery repeats his message once, twice, before finally stepping away. 

Napoleon’s hands are nothing but fiery echoes of pain. It feels like the electricity didn’t only sear his skin, but his veins, muscles and bones, the lingering pain reaching almost to his shoulders. His left side hurts worse, but he can’t concentrate on that. There’s the faint smell of burning flesh and Napoleon wants to throw up, but he won’t give Avery that satisfaction. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears, that he thinks Avery should be able to hear it. 

“Are we clear on that now, little bird?”

Napoleon would rather take another shock than having Peril nod, but the satisfaction mirrored on Avery’s face tells him, that his partner did. He takes a few steps back and leans his cane against the table. 

“Good. Now, please Dr. Gladstone, proceed.” 

Gladstone, who just hovered in the background until now, rolls the tray over to them with the chart on top. She picks up a small flashlight and steps in close. Napoleon neither has the strength nor does he see the necessity to fight the doctor, as she tilts his head slightly to her. The way she shines the flashlight into Napoleon’s eyes, one after the other while she holds it open with his free hand, is not exactly pleasant. He doesn’t know, if he’s been dizzy before or it’s the dark spots caused by the light that makes him feel strange. 

It’s hard to concentrate on what Gladstone does to him. At some point he has to open his mouth to let her poke around a bit more. The pain in his arm doesn’t lessen. Occasional he hears Avery and Gladstone exchange a few words, but he can’t really keep track in them. 

Suddenly something cold touches his chest. Napoleon blinks down to find a pair of scissors right in front of him, starting to cut down his dress shirt. 

A familiar voice makes him try to listen harder. The accent is so familiar by now, that it’s almost easier to understand him than the others in the room. 

“—do I have to do?”

Napoleon sees Avery’s smile tinged with faked innocence. “What do you have to do for what?”

There’s a moment silence, when Gladstone stops the cutting, Napoleon’s shirt halfway opened. 

“What do I have to do to keep him here.”

Napoleon struggles to make sense of it all, but the pain in his arm and the dizziness don’t really help him.

Avery’s hand is raised, halting the doctor without dismissing her, a curious expression on his face. 

“What would you do?”

It’s not hard to imagine Peril’s hands twitching, just a few moments until his usual rhythmic drumming starts. There would be a moment of silence, if Napoleon’s heartbeat wouldn’t hammer in his ears. It’s almost so loud it hurts. 

“What you want me to.”

That finally makes Napoleon’s head snap back to him. He can’t be serious. “You can’t –“

A hard slap cuts off Napoleon’s words. For a second he thinks it might be enough for Napoleon to lose his footing, but the idea alone of putting weight on his arms makes him struggle to stay upright. 

Avery looks at him scoldingly, but Illya makes him turn his attention back to himself.

“You will not harm or touch him and I will do as you say.”

The man crosses his arms in front of his chest, pretending to think about it. “I don’t believe you.”

Napoleon can practically hear Illya grinding his teeth. Absurdly the first thing coming to his mind is the question, how close Illya is to shattering them in his mouth. 

“I’ll give my word.”

Avery hums. “What about you show me?”

Napoleon is about to protest, when he receives another hard slap. The force is enough to knock him to the side, his weight pulling at his bound hands. He’s surprised he manages to stay silent. Illya growls in the background. 

With a wave of his hand Avery gets one of the guards coming over. Napoleon doesn’t have the time to sigh in relief, as his hands are released. Instantly his arms are gripped tightly, his left twisted behind his back. He muffles his cry by biting his lips. 

He gets turned around in time to see another guard release Illya as well. Instead of grabbing the man’s gun at his hips or even drawing him into a chokehold, Illya does nothing. Napoleon wants to scream. He’s already opened his mouth, when a piece of cloth is shoved between his teeth. He tries to throw his head from side to side, but after the first jerk, the dizziness turns to nausea, the cloth still unyielding in his mouth. If he throws up with that thing still in, he might choke and die, so his struggle ceases. Another cloth is wrapped tightly on top of it, holding everything in place. He is led over to the fireplace, where he has an unobstructed view of the table in the middle of the room and Illya. Maybe he looks as pitiful as he feels, because they don’t even bother raising his hands over his head again. Instead they take the old cuffs and close them tightly with one of the poles between them and his body. Napoleon almost wishes them to secure his left arm further up as the pain gets worse, traveling through his arm and bleeding into his chest with his blood flowing back. He’s free to sit down, but even as exhausted and hurting he won’t sink down in Avery’s presence. Not again. 

The sight of Illya distracts him, slowly walking towards Avery, every muscle in his body taut. Avery only smiles at him. Napoleon’s frustrated shouts stay behind the layers of cloth stuffed in his mouth. Avery glances at him for a second before turning to Illya again. His gaze travels down Illya’s body in a manner that revives Napoleon’s nausea. 

“Why don’t you take off your shirt, little bird.”

Napoleon yanks at the cuffs holding him back. The sharp pain in his wrist and the burning of his arm barely registers, as Illya complies. 

Illya does it mechanically, pulling his shirt over his head and discarding it on the floor. It is almost disturbing how well Napoleon knows the pattern of scars crisscrossing his skin. Some he even stitched up himself. These are not for Avery to see. 

An ugly, unfamiliar rage encloses Napoleon, as Avery approaches his partner and runs a hand over his chest, looking a little disappointed. “I expected you to have some scars, but not this many. Rather sad to see you so damaged, little bird.”

Illya doesn’t say anything, only blinks once slowly, still Napoleon knows that Avery hit a sore spot. The urge to rip that man into shreds rises in Napoleon, just so he can show him who’s _damaged_.

Avery hums and flicks his wrist at the doctor. “I guess I’ll have to place my seal elsewhere.”

Gladstone obediently walks over to the fireplace next to Napoleon. She’s giving Napoleon a clearly not-so medical once over as she approaches. The cut in his shirt is large enough for one side falling down his shoulder and exposing half of his chest, where the woman is staring blatantly. Napoleon wonders, if she contemplated buying him. The doctor lifts his gaze off of him, as she pulls out one of the irons sticking in the fireplace. The tip is glowing reddish white, where some kind of frame is attached to the handle. Napoleon bets it’s in the shape of a feather. 

Avery gestures Illya to sit down on the table. Illya lowers himself down on it without even a moment of hesitation. Why does he do that? Napoleon doesn’t know what makes him angrier, how Avery treats Illya or that Illya just takes it.

Settling his hand under Illya’s jaw, Avery turns his head to the side humming. “Lovely cheekbones, really. Practically made for this.”

He motions the doctor over, still holding Illya’s face in his hand. “Do you think you can stay still for this, little bird?”

He wants to burn his sigil on Illya’s face. This can’t be happening. Napoleon launches forwards, neither caring for the still pulsing pain in his chest nor for the cuffs on his wrists, as he sees Illya nod. The pole holds, almost dislocating his shoulders when it abruptly stops Napoleon from taking another step in their direction. 

Avery glances at Napoleon and chuckles softly. He steps to the side to make more room for Gladstone and the iron in her hands. Now standing right in front of Illya, he tilts his face up to him and leans down. 

It’s not even a real kiss, merely a brush of lips over lips, but Napoleon doesn’t care. Illya’s eyes widen and for the first time he tries to move back, but Avery’s hand holds him in place as he waves the doctor over. It’s enough reason for Napoleon to kill Avery. This kiss doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to Gaby. 

Napoleon is not Illya. He’s not strong enough to rip the pole out of the ceiling. He’s strong enough to break a hand though. 

He doesn’t hesitate, using first the pole, then the wall behind him. His bones snap, the burned skin of his left hand still catches at the rim of the cuff and gets ripped off, as he slides out of it. 

Grabbing the first weapon he can reach, he draws another iron out of the fire with his remaining good hand and sprints over to Avery. He’s so fast, that the alarmed shouts of the guards are only enough to make Avery turn to him. 

Napoleon’s strike is not well aimed, but he still hits the side of Avery’s head, sending the man to the floor. 

Not even a second later he is grabbed by several hands and yanked back. Kicks in the back of his legs make him fall to his knees, one hand in his hair preventing him from doubling over. Both his arms are wrenched back and held there, the guards not trusting the cuffs to confine him anymore. He bites down hard on the cloth still in his mouth as his broken hand gets crushed by the tight grip. Napoleon needs a few moments to breathe through the pain. When he blinks his eyes open again, he can see Illya fighting two of the guards trying to secure him to the table and Avery slowly sitting up. Gladstone hovers next to the man, but her rant gets silenced with a harsh gesture of Avery’s hand.

The man meets Napoleon’s gaze and for the first time every bit of playfulness is gone from his face. A wound hidden in his hair bleeds freely, clotting the strands and ruining his clothes. If Napoleon’s mouth wasn’t occupied with the gag, he would have grinned at him. 

Avery looks furious as he gets to his feet, shaking off Gladstone’s attempts to steady him. 

Striding the short distance over to Napoleon, he grabs his cane still leaning against the table. “Let go of him.”

The instant the grip securing his hands loosens, Napoleon receives a kick to his stomach, sending him flying backwards. He tries to twist away from the next blows, but it’s difficult with his head feeling fuzzy. He only manages to curl in on his side, when the next kick leaves him sprawled out on his back again.

The electrodes of the cane connects to his chest. Napoleon can only let out a gasp, before his muscles contract painfully. The electricity travels through him, searing everything in its path. His whole body feels on fire, out of control, and Avery doesn’t stop. Napoleon can’t think past the agony. He hears Illya shouting in rage, but he can’t understand anything. 

Suddenly everything goes dark, the sensation of the current running through his body stops a few moments later. For a few seconds Napoleon doesn’t understand, then he thinks he just lost consciousness, but for that he still hurts too much. His whole body is still clenched tight, spasms and twitches shaking him. His heartbeat is almost deafening. He reaches up to his chest, tugging the sliced open shirt over the burned spot and clutching the fabric in his hands. The pain worsened, now pulsing through him with every heartbeat. 

Avery’s angry voice leaves no doubt, that he’s still somewhat conscious.

“What is this?”

Nobody dares to answer. 

Slowly Napoleon’s eyes adjust. They had a power shortage apparently, the room now only lit by the glowing remains in the fireplace, shading everything black and red. 

Avery snorts and kicks Napoleon once more. The pain nearly doesn’t register next to his chest contracting, still Napoleon curls up on his side as good as he is able to.

“We’re not finished here.”

Avery walks towards the door and steps out. The corridor outside is even darker than the inside. Gladstone quickly collects her instruments and follows him. Absently Napoleon hears the crunching of leather, probably Illya now strapped down to the table. The guards leave Napoleon on the floor, uncaring as they walk by. And this time they are right to do so, because even if Napoleon collects even the last ounces of strength he has left, he wouldn’t have been able to stand up again, even less fighting anyone of them. 

The door falls shut behind them, leaving Napoleon and Illya alone in the glowing darkness of the room. Napoleon hears a mumbled Russian curse, then the sound of something snapping. 

It takes barely a second, until he feels a cold hand lowering gently onto his shoulder. It rests there for barely a moment, before Napoleon can feel something tugging at the back of his head. Only a little later the gag loosens, so that Napoleon can spit out the cloth stuffed in his mouth. He greedily sucks in fresh air, as the hand returns to his shoulder.

“Can you get up?”

Napoleon manages to turn his head to look at his partner. There are some odd bands falling from his wrists. It takes a second for Napoleon to realize that they’re the straps from the table. Illya probably just ripped them off where they were attached to the frame.

“Cowboy? Can you get up?”

Ah yes, Illya asked him something. “Don’t think I want to.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” On any other day Napoleon would have raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he was somewhere else the last few hours, but for once he’s not in the mood for deliberately misunderstanding his partner.

“Chest hurts.”

Two icy fingers appear on the side of his neck. Napoleon wants to shrink back from the cold, but he doesn’t have the energy.

“Dizzy? Pain in arm, left side?”

Napoleon can only nod and ball the fist in the remains of his shirt tighter. It feels like something squeezes his ribcage. He can’t seem to get enough air, although he’s breathing erratically. 

“Don’t move. You are having heart attack.”

Napoleon shakes his head in denial. He’s thirty four, he’s too young for that. He struggles to sit up. Two strong arms help him. Before Napoleon can protest, he gets carefully dragged back until he can lean against the wall behind him. 

There is an odd undertone in Illya’s growl, which Napoleon can’t quite place. He doesn’t like it.

“Don’t. Move.”

Napoleon would like to retort something, but all he can do is clutch the fabric of his shirt over his heart again. Illya is wrong, has to be. He tries to follow Illya’s form with half lidded eyes as his partner turns to the door and tries to kick it open. The noise of his foot colliding with the wood is barely louder than Napoleon’s heartbeat in his ears. 

The door won’t give. Illya tackles it instead with his whole body. Napoleon watches him, outlined in red by the fireplace. As strong as Illya is, he won’t be able to break it open. If Avery even used half the locks outside the door, it will hold. Illya is just wasting energy and probably breaking his shoulder. He’s about to say so, but somehow he can’t find the strength.

Napoleon blinks and Illya is by his side. He needs a few seconds to realize he lost time. There’s no way to tell how much, but the room turned even darker, the fireplace smoldering weaker. 

“Illya?” Napoleon frowns at the sound of his own voice. It sounds different in his ears, wrong. 

It barely takes a second and he’s kneeling next to Napoleon, one hand on the side of his face, his eyes wide. If Napoleon didn’t know better he’d say with panic. 

Which is ridiculous. Napoleon doesn’t even know why Illya is hovering over him like that. He’s going to be fine, he survived worse. He didn’t suffer through all the years in the army and the CIA, just to die from something mundane as a heart attack. Give him a week and he’ll be alright. It’s fine, he’s fine. He’s –

“I’m scared Peril.”

His voice breaks at his partner’s nickname, his throat closing up. The pain in his chest gets worse and he shudders with it. His hand is shaking as he lets go of his shirt. Reaching out in the semi-darkness of the room, a cold hand closes around his fingers. 

Napoleon blinks once and somehow the glow of the fireplace is not enough make out his partner’s silhouette anymore. He can faintly hear Illya calling his name, sounding further away by the second until Napoleon is alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, torture (electro shocks) causing a heart attack, non-consensual touching and kissing


	15. Chapter 15

Gaby slowly raises her head from the soil where she’s ducked. The mansion is completely dark in front of her, the guards running wild with flashlights in the dimness of the few hours before sunrise. What wonders a well-timed explosive and a grenade can accomplish. Over the headphones she can hear the confused chatter of the operatives lying in wait about who did this. It wasn’t hard to pick up the right frequencies, not when you knew how U.N.C.L.E. operated. When she spotted the first scouts of the back-up squad, she had decided she waited long enough. She spent hours wandering around the grounds, using spyglasses to peek through every lit window, getting to know the layout as well as she can, all the while fuming. She knows, that she has little chance to infiltrate a compound on her own and get her partners out in one piece. Her best chance is letting Avery’s men clash with Waverly’s and slip in while everyone else is occupied. Until now no one has left the premises or even the mansion for that matter, which means her partners are still in there. That is probably the only thing that made her stay put all this time. The mission isn’t her concern anymore. 

She’s here to get her partners out and nothing more. She’s never been particularly patient and now she’s angry as well. Angry at Solo for lying to her again, at Illya for not listening to her and at herself for letting everything happen. And completely furious that someone dared to lay a hand on them.

She runs her hands down her body, over the equipment and the weapons she brought, while listening to the attacking forces hurrying to take advantage of the blackout. Her gun on her right hip, a few additions in a small pack on her left. A knife sheathed in her right boot, a switchblade hidden in her sleeve. 

She’s already on her way to the fence, when she finally hears the command. 

“Move in.”

Gaby starts off in a jog. The few cameras set up to survey the fence are dead, just like the lights illuminating everyone coming too close. She starts climbing up the fence, when she hears another explosion coming from the main gate. The timing is perfect, Avery’s men rushing to the source of the noise and abandoning their previous posts. Gaby enters the grounds undiscovered. 

She presses tightly against the exterior walls of the mansion and makes her way over to what she suspects is a garage. Shattering a window to slip in isn’t particularly elegant, but it does the job and lets her stay away from the action on the front yard. 

She pulls out her flashlight. There’s a door on the other side of the room, most likely leading to the main building. She crosses the room, stepping around various cars and not even glancing at them. She turns off her flashlight again and carefully tries the handle. It’s locked. 

She grabs the small leather case Solo picked out for her and kneels in front of the lock. She can’t see much, but she knows where the right picks are by touch. After a moment she is able to sink them into the keyhole and listens for the telltale clicking. She needs probably more than twice as long as Solo would, but slowly the pins slot into place.

She opens it only a small gap and listens. There are hurried steps, but they all seem to pass her by. She waits for a break to slip through. She doesn’t dare to pull her flashlight out again, so she carefully maneuvers around in the dark, ducking behind anything she can when she hears more steps approach. 

From the few snatches of conversation she picks up, they are forming a defense to stop the attackers from invading the mansion, until they know who they’re dealing with. They seem to suspect a rivaling trafficking ring. Doubtlessly they are in for a surprise. 

She reaches a huge staircase and decides to go up to avoid the main hallways. She just rounded a corner, when she sees a few sets of flashlights appear in front of her. She retreats immediately, ducking behind a large vase. The lack of shouting tells her that she hasn’t been spotted. With every step in her direction, Gaby can make out more of their words. There are two voices, one male and one female, but there are more than two sets of steps.

“Sir, we’re under attack. I advise you to leave now and come back for him, when it’s safe.”

“No, he’s mine and I’m taking him with me.”

“Mr. Avery, please-“

Gaby’s hands clench into fists involuntary. It’s him, this is the man they were looking for and who was looking for them in turn.

“This is not up for discussion doctor.”

The woman sighs. “Fine, what about the Raven then? You want to take him to? That one probably needs to be carried.”

Avery’s voice turns cold.

“Let the Falcon carry him to the safe house, it will keep him occupied. The second the situation is secured, I’m going to tear that little shit apart all for my Falcon to see.”

The woman hums shortly.

“You didn’t even consider leaving him whole didn’t you? What a waste, he’s such a pretty one.” 

Avery’s chuckle is mirthless. “I’ll still keep him after I’m through with him as a reminder. Maybe he could teach my little bird a thing or two on his knees.”

Gaby’s blood runs cold with both dread and fury. She knows better than to let her emotions cloud her judgements, but the urge to jump out of her hiding spot to shoot Avery then and there is strong.

The woman sighs again. It sounds like she wants to say something more, but the sound of one of the guard’s communicator going off interrupts her. 

They stop moving just inches from Gaby’s hiding spot, close enough that she can hear the cracking of the radio. One voice she hasn’t heard before speaks up.

“Sir, they stormed the main entrance hall. We must hurry.”

Avery hums once, sounding still unimpressed.

“Fine. Meet me at the emergency exit in five, prepare everything. I’m getting my birds.”

The group splits up, one guard still accompanying Avery and the woman, the others taking another turn. Silently Gaby slides out of her hiding spot and follows Avery in the dark. That man is not getting away. Gaby will make sure of that. 

Her steps are silent as she follows them through the mansion. It’s hard not to lose the sense of direction in the dark corridors. It doesn’t take long for them to reach a door riddled with locks and bolts. Avery takes his time with unlocking every single one. Calmly he opens the door and motions the guard to wait for them outside. 

This has to be it. Gaby only notices that her hand already lowered itself onto her gun when she didn’t have to reach for it. Biting her lip she waits for Avery and the woman to disappear into the room. The gun feels heavy in her hand, foreign. It would be easy to just shoot the guard out of the dark. Still the sound of the shot might alert others. Quickly she tugs the gun away, then immediately opens the small bag on the other side of her hip. 

Her hands find the prepared syringe effortlessly in the dark. She holds her breath as she crouches low to get closer.

She’s about five feet away, when the lights go back on. Knowing she only has moments left, she starts to sprint towards the guard. Of course he sees her now, one hand is on his gun, the other on his radio, but Gaby has tackled stronger men off their feet before.

Except there is no space for the man to fall backwards. Gaby rams him to the door behind him, his head hitting the wood with a loud thump. She takes advantage of his short disorientation and jams the needle into the side of his neck. 

The sedative works better than she hoped. The man has barely the time to raise his hand to the puncture wound before his eyes roll back in his skull. Gaby grabs him by his collar and pulls him to the side, so that his collapsing form doesn’t block the door. 

His body barely hit the ground when the door gets opened from the inside. She was still too loud. Gaby grabs her gun with both hands and aims. 

The woman peeking through the slit freezes as she sees her. For a few moments they just stare at each other, both unmoving.

Gaby shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

The woman shakes her head slowly, her eyes trained on the gun in Gaby’s hand.

“Good. Now step back into the room. Slowly.”

With a quick nod the woman complies. Gaby follows her step for step, not lowering her gun for a second.

The room she’s entering looks like a mix of torture chamber and a parlor. Avery is over at a fireplace, reaching for one of the irons in it. She doesn’t hesitate to redirect her gun to him.

“I would leave that right there.”

Avery doesn’t even look surprised as he turns around, he rather looks pleased.

“How nice of you to join us.” He shortly gives her a once-over, frowning a little. “But where did you leave your pretty colors, my darling paradise bird?”

Gaby doesn’t know what to make of that, but she doesn’t exactly care, as her eyes fall on her partners.

In the far corner sits Illya with his back to the wall. There’s a bar lying on the ground next to him, ripped from the turned steel table, which remains lie in the middle of the room. Solo is propped up between his legs, unconscious. The way he’s slumped back against Illya’s chest makes dread pool in her stomach. The only thing that’s lets Gaby keep her composure is Illya’s fingers resting on the side of his neck over the pulse point. She doesn’t ask Illya if they are alright, because they are not.

Her head snaps back around to Avery, who’s about to take a step towards her.

“Stay where you are.”

Her aim is steady as she points her gun at Avery. The man has the audacity to smirk at her. 

“We both know you won’t shoot me or you would have already done it.”

Gaby scoffs. “I don’t have to. Backup is already here.”

Now the man widens his eyes mock-impressed. “So you’re responsible for this?”

“I can be responsible for a lot more, try me.”

Avery just grins at her. “I think I’ll take you with us instead of the Raven. Less weight to carry and more fun.”

She doesn’t answer that. She knows the man is probably too arrogant to take this situation seriously, which makes him even more dangerous.

He’s staring at her, his head slightly tilted. She can feel his gaze wander up and down her body, assessing and greedy. She refuses to show her discomfort and channels it into anger, letting it bleed into her face. 

A Russian curse slices through the short silence. Gaby glances to her partners as Illya scrambles out from under Solo. Her blood runs cold as he lays him flat on the ground, tilting his head back to straighten his airways. His hands quickly find Solo’s pulse point again for a second, before Illya pinches his partner’s nose shut and leans down. Gaby know exactly what happened even before Illya starts to pump Solo’s chest rhythmically, but her head is filled with static. 

Avery’s chuckle nearly drowns in the sounds of her own blood rushing in her ears.

“Oh my, looks like our Raven isn’t too big a fan of electricity.”

The words need a few seconds to truly sink in. He shocked him. Avery shocked him. Of all things he could have done, and now he laughs at Solo dying.

“Shut up.”

When Avery opens his mouth again, Gaby aims and pulls the trigger. 

The bullet missing Avery’s head by mere inches finally makes him hold his tongue. Gaby turns the gun on his face again. A dark desire to just pull the trigger again rises in her, to see his face torn apart by bullet holes. As much as he’s earned it, he’s not important right now.

Gaby turns to the woman with the leather bag, hoping doctor is not only a reference to an academic title.

“You. Get over to them and do something.”

The woman looks at her, as if to ask Gaby if she’s really talking to her. They don’t have the time for this. She lifts her gun off Avery and points it at the woman.

“It’s simple. He dies, you die.”

The doctor freezes for a second, before running over to them and dropping to her knees. Illya shortly glares at her, but his rhythm doesn’t falter. The woman hurriedly opens her bag and rummages around in it, until she pulls out a wrapped syringe and a small glass bottle. It takes only seconds for her to fill it and bows down to Solo. 

Gaby readjusts the gun in her hand. 

“What is in there?”

The doctor doesn’t slow down and sinks the needle in Solo’s arm. Gaby checks again if the safety is off and levels it at the woman. The only sound is the dull thumping of Illya forcing Solo’s blood to keep flowing. Every second feels like hours passed. Just as Illya leans down again to breath into the other man’s lungs, Solo’s body comes alive again with a broken gasp. His eyes fly open for a second, his head lifting off the ground, but falls back immediately. Illya quickly gets his hand between his partners head and the floor to lower him down gently. Solo closes his eyes again, as Illya’s fingertips press into his neck. Illya stays still for what feels like an eternity, before he gives Gaby a short nod. 

Gaby almost drops her gun in relief. In fact, she needs to blink a few times to clear her vision. She swallows heavily, forcing back the emotions crashing through her.

She knows already the short lapse of attention was a mistake as she sees movement out of the corner of her eye. She’s not fast enough to block the fist aimed for her face. For a moment her vision blacks out. She comes to as she hits the ground. A kick against her wrist makes her cry out and let go of her gun. Avery gets his hands on it in just a second. Instead of leveling it at her, he turns around. 

“Time to clean up then.”

The doctor scrambles out of the way, as Avery aims for Gaby’s partners. Illya is crouching in front of Solo, blocking Avery as he levels his gun at the unconscious man.

Gaby is frozen where she lies, expecting Avery to pull the trigger any second now. Except he doesn’t. His voice is laced with ice, his aim is steady, but he doesn’t shoot.

“Out of the way, little bird.”

Illya just glares at him, not moving an inch.

Avery fires.

The noise shocks Gaby into action again. In a moment she’s back on her feet. Without hesitation she jumps Avery from behind. It’s almost like when she attacked Alexander Vinciguerra in Rome, only this time she has her hands free and a switchblade hidden in her sleeve. 

The movement was so drilled into her, that she doesn’t even have to think about it. In a fluid motion she lets the knife slip into her hand and lets the blade snap out of its sheath. 

Nothing of her training prepared her for what it actually feels like to put a knife in someone’s neck. She knows she hit the right spot by the blood gushing out, pulsing with every heartbeat. There’s a squelching sound and her hands instantly gets slippery with blood, making it hard to hold on to the blade. Still she grips tighter and pushes the knife forward and down, opening the wound even more, destroying the man’s vocal chords. 

The only sound Avery makes is a faint gurgle, before falling forwards. Gaby lets go of him, remaining on her feet.

The second Avery is down, she kicks against the man’s hand to free the gun and takes it herself. The man is still twitching as his blood runs out freely. Slowly Gaby get up and fires. Once in the man’s back, once higher up at his neck, then randomly until she runs out of bullets. Avery doesn’t twitch anymore. 

She lets the gun fall from her hand. It’s useless anyway now. Her clothes are sprayed with blood, her sleeves just shy of dripping. It’s kind of warm, which makes it all the more surreal. She lifts her head up again to find Illya staring at her with his eyes wide in shock. She’s got nothing to say.

She doesn’t even need to. The door behind her gets barreled open. She tries to fight the men forcing her down on the ground, right in the puddle of Avery’s blood. She stands no chance. Blood gets on her face, on her lips, into her mouth. She clenches her jaw shut to keep from throwing up. Through the mass of barked orders she hears Illya shouting, calling her name. 

A few seconds later the weight on her back gets lifted off and she gets hauled up. She shoves the bodies away from her trying to catch her breath. With her hands she rubs over her face, but she can’t get the blood off, nearly blinding herself with it. She can hear even more people storm into the room and she gets ready to fight, claw their way out with her bare hands if she has to. 

“Agent Teller?”

She jerks around to the unfamiliar voice. She blinks a few times to clear her vision. In front of her stands a stranger in a Navy uniform, holding out a clean handkerchief. She snatches it out of his hands and wipes her face. Seeing clear now, she turns back to her partners. The new forces secured the doctor a few steps apart from them. Solo is still on the ground, Illya’s fingers pressed to his neck, his other hand covers his side, where blood is seeping through the cracks of his fingers. Gaby is about to storm to them, when a hand on her upper arm holds her back. 

She’s turning around to snarl at the man, but he beats her to it. 

“Mr. Waverly wants to see you. He’s waiting outside in one of our vehicles.”

Gaby has trouble understanding him for a few moments. He can’t be serious.

“I’m not leaving my team.”

The man in front of her looks more uncomfortable by the second. He clears his throat, but lowers his voice when he speaks. 

“Mr. Waverly made it clear, that if you really don’t want to leave your team entirely, you better go now.”

Gaby just looks at him, at loss for words. A team of paramedics storms through the door and she has to step aside not to get run over. She silently watches as they crouch down next to Illya and Solo, already unfolding a stretcher. The best thing Gaby could probably do right now is stay out of their way, even if her whole being screams in protest. She meets Illya’s gaze through the hustle as a woman tears Illya’s shirt open over the wound on his side. 

“Lead the way.”

She catches Illya’s expression turning to disbelief as she turns around and follows the man out. They only pause for her to throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for cardiac arrest, violence, blood and character death


	16. Chapter 16

The helicopter is as loud as Illya remembers it. The paramedics lift Solo in first, then Illya climbs in after, shaking off the woman applying pressure to the bullet hole in his side. They said he was lucky, the bullet went right through him seemingly without hitting any vital organs. Illya doesn’t feel lucky. 

They’re strapping in for the flight to the next secure facility that holds a well enough equipped medical bay, when Solo suddenly blinks his eyes open. He instantly starts to struggle against the belts securing him to the stretcher, flinching with every movement from a newly aggravated injury. Illya is faster by his side than the paramedics. 

Solo’s eyes are unfocused and wild. Illya leans over him, holding onto his jaw careful but insistent, so that he stops throwing his head around. He can only guess where his mind is right now, still reeling with the adrenalin and shock of nearly dying. 

He’s about to reach for the man’s hand, but stops at the sight of it. Now in the morning light it’s the first time he really sees it. Entire patches of skin are missing, others ripped open or scored black, the bones underneath definitely broken. Illya can’t help but stare, swallowing thickly. It’s his left. Illya knows Solo is ambidextrous. Not daring to check the state of his partner’s other hand he forces himself to look back up again.

“It’s alright Cowboy, it’s over.” Solo blinks several times. After a few ragged breaths Solo seems to really _see_ him. No words come past his lips, but he stops struggling, which Illya counts as a win. He blinks again before his eyes roll back into his head. 

Illya is quick to make room for the paramedics as they check his partner over one more time. It only takes a few seconds, but Illya’s own racing pulse makes it seem far longer than that. His whole body tenses in apprehension, when they withdraw from him. 

“He’s unconscious again, but he seems stable.”

Illya takes his place next to Solo, as soon as there’s enough space for him. His hands start to shake where they lie on his lap, but not with anger, his adrenalin levels finally crashing down. A strange mix of relief and alarm floods through Illya, making him dizzy. There’s something warm trickling down his side. When he checks, his fingers come away stained red. For a second he can’t explain where it comes from, before the gunshot wound starts stinging furiously again. The world tilts to his the side and there’s nothing he can do about it.

***

Illya blinks his eyes open and is somewhere else.

He jerks up from where he’s lying, only to flinch at the stabbing pain in his side. He takes a deep breath and waits until the pain ebbs away, before he can take in his surroundings. He lies in a bed in a small, plain room. The walls are blank and there are white curtains on the window on his side, blocking out the view. Instead of his own clothes he’s wearing hospital scrubs and there’s a clear fluid constantly dripping into the pit of his arm. Quickly he pulls it out. A drop of blood follows the needle, but he rubs it away. There’s a bandage around his wrist, which startles him for a second. 

The gunshot wound forces him to be careful as he slowly swings his legs out of the bed. He takes a few cautious steps towards the windows and pushes back the curtains. 

The sight in front of him is familiar, the Navy compound where they had been briefed before being sent off for the mission. Grey clouds color the sky, making it impossible to guess the time, but Illya stays standing there watching for another few moments. Avery held him a handful of days at most. He’s been in captivity way longer than that before. Still, watching as the first few drops of rain started to fall makes something within his chest loosen up. His gaze is following three birds, who cross the sky looking for shelter, as the door to his room opens. 

His head snaps around, startling the nurse who just entered the room. She’s middle-aged with dark hair and caramel skin with deep brown eyes that look sharp and warm at the same time. It only takes a second for her to switch from surprised to concerned.

“You should not be up yet, Mr. Kuryakin.”

She pronounces his name oddly, like Waverly does from time to time, but he doesn’t care enough to correct her.

“Where are my partners?”

The nurse blinks once. “Mr. Solo is just down the hall, there’s no one else of your agency at the compound.”

Illya keeps his face carefully blank, as he remembers Gaby following one of the foreign agents out. The image of her drenched in blood comes unbidden. He placates himself, that she seemed unharmed. 

He tries to sidestep the nurse, but the woman blocks his way with a frown.

“As I already said, you should not be up.”

Illya knows that the nurse isn’t responsible for any of this, but it is still hard to keep himself from snapping at her. 

“I am going to see my partner.”

Her face softens with compassion. “I’m sorry, but the doctors don’t allow visitors just yet. He won’t be conscious anyway.”

Her words make him pause for a moment. 

“Why not?”

Before Illya can put up a fight, there’s a firm hand on his arm and he gets led back. The nurse is gentle but insisting, as she sits him down on the bed again.

“The doctors are keeping him sedated for another few hours to take a little strain off his body.”

Illya doesn’t even wince as she re-inserts the needle in the crook of his arm. This time it gets secured with more tape than the last time. Illya watches her fingers trace over it once. He swallows thickly and looks up again. 

The unspoken question fills the silence between them. The apologetic smile he gets makes his stomach drop. 

“It’s too early to determine anything definitely. The doctors had to operate to reset a few broken bones and most likely he will need physical therapy. They are not sure about extent of the damage to his heart or the consequences of a possible oxygen deficiency.”

She’s kind enough not to make flimsy reassurances. Still her careful wording tells Illya everything he needs to know. Solo’s heart probably won’t recover fully and they can’t rule out brain damage on top of the injuries Avery inflicted. The memory of Solo’s pulse stopping under his finger flickers through his head, of his body convulsing with the electricity running through him and the image of him curled up on the floor. 

He inhales sharply as he twists to resettle on the bed. The nurse quickly grabs the covers and pulls them over Illya’s legs again. 

“I’m sorry, but we can’t give you something for the pain yet, not until we know exactly which drugs they gave you.”

Illya nods blankly. He wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.

She quickly checks on the state of the bandages before she steps back.

“Is there anything else you need?”

What he needs is nothing she could have given him.

“No, thank you.”

With a quick nod, she leaves him alone again. She closes the door behind her silently.

Illya leans back to support his upper body a little. The nurse said another few hours. Illya decides to give them two at most. Out of habit he looks down to his wrist only to be reminded that his watch is gone, probably for good this time. The thought stings. He glances at the clock hanging over the door. It’s early in the afternoon and Illya hasn’t really slept for two days, still he can’t find it in him to close his eyes. 

His thoughts go back to the man lying sedated down the hall. There’s a not negligible chance Solo won’t make it back into the field, maybe he won’t even be fit for their business in general anymore. His contract with U.N.C.L.E. is the same as Illya’s and it’s limited to one year. There’s still more than four years of his prison sentence left. Solo told him once, that the CIA is probably never going to let him go anyway and Illya agreed. Illya doesn’t want to think about what they will do if Solo isn’t useful to them anymore.

Illya remembers the suffocating guilt when Avery drugged him, but he is not surprised that it isn’t really gone. It’s because it’s true. Even though they made it out, Illya failed him. If Illya had handled things differently, all this might not have happened.

The clock ticks away with nothing else to focus on for a long time, Gaby’s absence more glaring than the one of Illya’s watch. He wonders where she is, where she went after she had left them in that room. There’s still no word from her and he has no idea why. She tends to fuss over them for even the smallest scratches and now she’s nowhere in sight. It’s not the only thing that doesn’t add up. Either Solo lied to him in the cell or Gaby lied to him in the loft. If anyone asked Illya a week earlier, who of the two spoke the truth, his answer would have been clear. Now he’s not so sure anymore. 

The time drags on. The IV-bag empties itself and a nurse comes in to replace it and brings him something to eat. He should be as starved as he is tired, but he can’t bring himself to even pick up the fork. 

In the end, he can’t stand to stay in bed and do nothing longer than one and a half hours. He’s more careful now as he gets up. He pulls out the needle again and sneaks out the door. 

There are a few people in the corridor, but they are all too busy to notice him at once. Illya grabs an unguarded white coat and quickly dons it. It’s a little small for him, but it is hopefully enough not to stick out immediately. 

As he walks down the corridor, the simple rooms are replaced by the booths for more intensive medical care. Large windows line the corridor to make keeping an eye on the patients easier. Inside the rooms monitors and different medical setups are stacked on top of each other next to every bed. 

The first few rooms Illya passes are empty, then he stops in front of one of the windows. 

He nearly doesn’t recognize his partner. Half of his face is covered with an oxygen mask, his hair is ruined, but that’s not it. The way he’s lying utterly still is so untypically for Solo, that he doesn’t seem real. Bandages are peeking out from the hospital gown he’s wearing. Both his hands are wrapped up tightly with only his fingertips visible. 

They will be covered in scars for the rest of his life. The idea seems surreal. Solo’s hands were always immaculate, way too soft for a man in his business. He wonders if his partner will ever forgive him for that.

Illya can feel someone coming up beside him. There’s a tired sigh on his left. 

“Sir, I told you, you’re not allowed to visit yet, the doctors said-”

Apparently he’s been spotted by the nurse from earlier, but Illya can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t even take his eyes off his partner’s unconscious form. 

“I do not visit, I look.”

He can hear the nurse scoff, but after staying a few minutes with him in silence she surprisingly leaves him alone. He mutters his quiet thanks, but he doubts she heard him. 

There’s nothing else for Illya to do, so he waits. At some point someone brings him a chair. He thanks them quietly, but doesn’t sit down. He can feel weariness pulling at him, but he refuses to give in. Instead he focuses on his partner’s chest rising and falling. The light coming through the windows grows weaker and weaker, until night finally falls. 

There’s still no sign of Gaby. 

His legs are about to give, when he sees Solo jerk once in his bed. Illya takes a step closer, nearly pressing his forehead against the glass. For a few minutes nothing happens, until Solo slowly turns his head and blinks his eyes open. 

He’s awake. 

Illya only notices that he said that aloud, when he hears his own voice echoing in the corridor. The nurses are noisily jumping into action behind him.

Solo’s usually so sharp blue eyes are clouded. He slowly reaches up to pull down the mask, his pain obvious in every movement. He pauses at the sight of his bandaged hand, looking confused for a second. This is when he suddenly turns to Illya. His face is unreadable as he just looks at him for a few seconds, before turning his head to the other side, away from him. 

Illya steps away from the window, as a doctor and two nurses enter just a second later. A curtain gets drawn to block the view. Illya waits a few more minutes, before he slowly makes it back into his room. 

When the nurse comes in half an hour later to inform him that he may go in now, he declines.


	17. Chapter 17

The first thing he sees is Illya’s face through the window of his room. Well, not exactly the first thing, but the first thing that starts to make sense. He doesn’t remember how he got here, his thoughts are a sluggish mess. He feels the pain when he moves, sees the bandages covering his hands and he doesn’t have a clue where they come from. After a moment he notices, that the bandages of his left hand are actually a cast, which is even more surprising.

Illya stands there, looking at him, his posture stiff as ever, his face stricken with guilt. Napoleon needs a few moments before everything comes back to him.

He died.

He had a heart attack and he died. But he’s not dead. Still Illya looks at him like he is. And from one moment to the next he finds he can’t stand it. He turns his head away from his partner, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries to take a deep breath, but his ribs ache too much to make it effective. 

There are people entering his room. He hears the sound of someone drawing curtains. 

“Mr. Solo? How are you feeling?”

He wonders if he ever heard a more inane question. How is he supposed to feel? He would like to just kick everyone out and try to get a hold of himself in private, but he doesn’t think that is an option right now. He blinks his eyes open. 

He doesn’t really pay attention to the doctor and his questions. The information flies uselessly around in his head. His thoughts are slow and he prays that it’s the drugs in his system. He doesn’t care who broke his ribs, if it happened during the resuscitation or the beatings. He broke his hand himself, so he’s not surprised when they tell him about possible long term damage. He stops listening, when they talk about his heart.

Mercifully after a few more prods and tugs at his bandages they leave him alone again. On her way out a nurse draws back the curtains. Illya is gone. Napoleon doesn’t know if he wants him back there or not. 

They dimmed the light in his room, which is fine with him. He just woke up, but he is already tired. For a few moments he fights to stay awake, but inevitably his eyes fall shut again and again, until he can’t manage to get them to stay open.

There’s a little light coming through his eyelids. It’s just a faint glow, reddish and warm, probably coming in from the well-lit corridor. His chest and hands starts to burn worse again. After a few minutes he gives up trying to ignore it with a groan. Maybe he should ask for more painkillers. 

When he opens his eyes, Illya stands in front of his window again. There’s a large patch of gauze taped to his cheek. Napoleon frowns. This wasn’t there the last time was it?

A chuckle on his other side. Napoleon can feel his stomach sink as he recognizes the voice. He refuses to turn around. This can’t be happening, can it?

“Why don’t you show him, little bird.”

Napoleon wants to tell him to shut up, but his eyes stay fixed on his partner, as he slowly peels off the tape on his face. The gauze falls away easily. Underneath it there’s a fresh burn wound, bright red, in form of a feather. 

With a gasp, Napoleon’s eyes fly open. His chest is still in pain, his erratic breathing making his ribs hurt. He raises his hand to his face, but stops when the broken bones grind in protest. Stuck with nothing he can do, he tries to breathe through it. He knows this was a dream, he’s on heavy-duty painkillers and not stupid. He remembers what happened at Avery’s mansion. Avery left before he could get to Illya. 

Still he has no idea how he was brought here. He saw Illya earlier and there was nothing on his face. Except he only saw him for a few moments. Could he have missed something like that? Could Avery have done something to Illya, while he passed out?

Except he didn’t pass out. He died. 

He clamps down on that thought before it can take over. He forces himself to slow his breathing, relaxing consciously every muscle in his body. It’s exhausting, but the exhaustion might help him to finally find some rest. 

There are other dreams after that one. Sometimes with Avery, sometimes with Rudi and always with the burning pain of electricity. In some he dies, in some it just won’t stop. He doesn’t know which are worse. At some point Napoleon buzzes for a nurse and asks her to light up his room as much as she can. When he closes his eyes now, it’s too bright to really sleep, but he manages to doze through the rest of the night undisturbed.

A nurse comes into his room in the morning, checks his vitals and changes the bandages.

She leaves him a small breakfast. The food is terrible. Napoleon can barely keep it down. He gives up halfway through. 

He drifts through the day with little distraction, but little ability to focus on anything as well. The nurse throws him a worried glance after both his lunch and dinner return untouched. Night comes, his room well-lit again after midnight. He wonders when the exhaustion will just knock him out, so he doesn’t have to deal with this.

He’s about to close his eyes again to maybe manage to nap, when he catches his partner walking by his window. 

Illya is already wearing his own clothes again, complete with black turtleneck and cap. There’s only a bandage around his wrist, other than that he looks normal.

In the first moment, Napoleon is just relieved. There’s nothing on his face but the old scar on his temple. 

Peril doesn’t stop though. He doesn’t even glance in Napoleon’s direction.

He’s about to call out to him, when another man in a doctor’s coat followed by a nurse enters his room. 

The man is quick to introduce himself as a neurologist, before starting to ask him a couple of rather stupid questions. Napoleon only answers them truthfully, because an examination attesting to brain damage would look bad in his personal records. It’s followed by a small number of additional tests, on which Napoleon does good judging from the nurse’s expression. 

They are just about finished, when a familiar face appears at the window to the corridors. Napoleon nods at something the doctor said, but his eyes stay where they are.

Gaby leans in the door after the doctor and the nurse passed her on their way out. 

“You look awful.” 

He forces a smile on his face, although he knows it’s more than just shaky. Still it’s nice to pretend for a moment that nothing hurts. 

“Can’t deny that.”

There’s a short silence, as Gaby lets her gaze wander down on him, all the bandages, the monitor at his side. Napoleon longs suddenly for one of his suits, to have a little cover. With a short jerk of her head Gaby pulls herself out of it. 

“I’m here to pick up Illya.”

The little sting surprises Napoleon. It’s not like he expected his partners to hold his hand until he gets better again, but he expected _something_. He swallows that down.

“He’s getting released already?”

Gaby frowns. “If he got his way, he would have left yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?”

Napoleon hums once. “It’s hard to tell me things when he doesn’t visit.”

Her frown doesn’t cease as she turns around and leaves without a word. 

Not even two minutes pass and she’s back, Illya trailing behind her. He shortly glances at Napoleon before lowering his head a little. His shoulders are hunched, maybe from tiredness, maybe from pain. One of his hands is hovering on his side. Napoleon can see the tension in him. He frowns. 

“Are you alright, Peril?”

Just as Illya nods, Gaby snorts audibly. “Avery shot him in the side, which is why he is going to sit down. Now.”

Obediently Illya walks past Napoleon’s bed to sit on a plastic chair crammed in the corner of the room. Gaby follows for a few steps and leans against the wall on the opposite of them. The silence between them is uncomfortable. The last time they were all in one place is when Illya stormed out of the loft, right into Avery’s waiting arms. 

“Where is Avery now?”

“Dead.”

Napoleon can’t help but feel relieved. He never enjoyed taking a life, but the knowledge that Avery can’t touch them anymore eases a weight off his chest.

“How?”

Gaby doesn’t even blink. “Me.”

So she was there as well. He hopes he is inconspicuous as he scrutinizes her a little more closely. He knows that this was the first time Gaby killed. She seems put together well enough, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. Still he is going to wait until she brings it up. 

Napoleon studies his partners for other injuries.

“What else did I miss?”

Gaby hums once thoughtfully, her gaze flicking to Illya. 

“That’s a very good question.” 

As he doesn’t meet her eyes, she turns to Napoleon again.

“What happened between you two?”

For the first time, Illya speaks up.

“Nothing.”

Napoleon can see her body tensing, the way she tries to stop her hands from forming fists.

“Don’t even try to deny it. You can barely look at him. What happened in Avery’s mansion?”

Illya doesn’t quite manage to hide the flinch. Napoleon grimaces. “I’d rather spare you the details.”

She huffs out a laugh disbelievingly.

“Yes, because not telling me anything worked so well the last time.”

Illya slowly turns his head to her, his eyes narrowed, his lips slightly parted, but not saying anything. Gaby drives into him head on. 

“Yes I lied about Mikhail, but I don’t quite see the difference between lying and cutting me out, which the both of you seem to be very fond of.”

Illya still stares at her, his jaw visibly tensed. “To keep you safe.”

Gaby stares right back. “Doesn’t look like I’m the one who needs to be kept safe.”

Napoleon sighs. “Gaby, he’s ri-”

Her head snaps around to him, making her hair fly after it. “Don’t you dare saying anything Solo.” Her voice wavers, but it’s in anger, not in weakness. “You knew he had Illya. You _knew_ and you didn’t say a word. I only heard it from Avery’s sleazy henchman. If I got there a little later, you could have _died_.”

Not could have. He died. Napoleon shakes his head once to dispense the thought.

“I couldn’t have known that Avery already knew about us.”

“You could have known that if Illya couldn’t break out, you couldn’t either.”

She lets her gaze wander down on him, pointing out the obvious. Illya came out almost unscathed, Napoleon had not. 

Illya clears his throat, but his words still come out husky. “Not his fault. I miscalculated.”

He still doesn’t look at Napoleon, instead he stares at his hands. Now that Gaby pointed it out, he can’t ignore it any longer. It makes him angry. 

“So just for me to understand, by miscalculated you mean letting Avery do whatever he wants with you.”

Illya has the audacity to shrug.

“Needed to get attention away from you. Seemed like a good plan.”

Unbelievable. There’s a headache forming on the base of his skull as he tries form sentences without starting to scream.

“He was going to brand his sigil on your face and you were just going to let him. Tell me again, that this seemed like a good plan.”

There’s a short silence. “He already hurt you.”

Napoleon scoffs. “I was perfectly fine until you decided to play the hero.”

“Not fine.”

Napoleon already opened his mouth to dismiss that, as Illya looks up to him. There’s so much hurt and guilt in his eyes it makes him pause. 

“He raped you.”

For a moment Napoleon’s words leave him. Illya can’t be serious. He would shake his head at him, but he’s still not done staring in disbelief. Illya was there for the whole thing. He saw, that Napoleon engaged Avery first. Sure, Illya was drugged out of his mind, but still that was obvious enough. 

Napoleon doesn’t need to look at Gaby to know she’s staring at him in more or less concealed horror. He can’t believe they are discussing this in front of her.

“He didn’t rape me. I offered.”

Illya shakes his head. 

“Doesn’t matter. He knew you didn’t want it and he hurt you. This is rape.” 

There’s a bitter taste in Napoleon’s mouth. Illya is not the one allowed to decide about what happened. It’s his body, his decision. This doesn’t change just because the Russian got a front seat the last time. 

“So did Victoria rape me as well?” 

Illya looks confused. Napoleon doesn’t leave him the time to get even a single word in.

“Didn’t I mention she was into cutting? Cutting others, not herself of course. She had this really pretty antique knife with a blade so thin it wouldn’t leave scars.” He almost laughs at the way the color drains from Illya’s face. What did he think? That every time he takes someone to bed for the mission that it’s fun? That he likes to do everything? Well, he’s lucky he _enjoys whoring around_. 

“She didn’t care if I was into it either, so what’s your verdict Peril?”

And again Illya is staring at him with those wide blue eyes full of shock and emotion, like he did in Rome, like he did yesterday. In this moment it makes his blood boil. 

Napoleon doesn’t need this. He is not a victim.

Cruel words lie on his tongue. He knows exactly what to say, where to aim to make it hurt and to make it last. It’s almost too easy. 

A knock on the doorframe interrupts him.

Waverly is standing in the doorway. The corner of his mouth are curled up as usual, but there’s no amusement in it. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but it doesn’t sound very friendly in here. Is there anything I can do to help?”

For a moment all of them freeze. 

Gaby is the quickest of them to recover. 

“Yes. I want out of the team.”

Her words ring through the silence of the room. She doesn’t even glance at them, her eyes fixed on Waverly. She is blinking a little more rapidly, but her face stays hard. Napoleon has to stop himself from staring at her as his mind slowly catches up to her words. She can’t do this. They didn’t make it through everything thrown at them in the last half a year just for her quit. He glances at Illya, who’s face turned to stone. He knows it as well. Without Gaby there is no team. 

Waverly looks at her thoughtfully, before letting out a deep breath.

“I believe Mr. Solo’s physician would advise against additional stress, so I’m going to break this little get-together up now.” He nods to Illya and Gaby in turn. “I’m going to contact you later.”

Everyone in the room understands, this is a dismissal. Gaby and Illya head for the door immediately. They don’t look at each other or at Napoleon as they leave the room. Gaby marches right through it, Illya halts shortly on the doorstep, but in the end he doesn’t glance back either. Waverly watches them go with his polite smiles, before entering Napoleon’s room and closing the door behind him. 

Napoleon tries to sit up straighter, when he finds that he can’t. 

He puts his palms flat on the mattress to push himself up, only to have both of them in addition to his other injuries scream at him to stop. He grits his teeth and tries to push through it, but there is nothing much happening except his arms starting to quiver with exertion. The last bit of his strength seems to have left with his partners. If they still are his partners. A frustrated sound leaves his lips unwillingly, as he lets his arms drop again. 

Waverly is watching him from the edge of the room. Napoleon doesn’t know how long the Brit had stood there, but he’s sure he’s heard everything. Even if he didn’t, somehow he would know anyway. If it was possible to die from shame, it would happen any second now. 

But he already did die, didn’t he? 

Suddenly his breathing gets shaky. He curses softly and clamps his jaw shut. Not here, but where else if he can’t even get up?

“Let me lend you a hand Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon still fights the urge to bury his head in his hands, as Waverly walks over to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulls out two pillows and a blanket out of the lower drawers. The smile when Waverly approaches doesn’t really look different from his empty ones, but somehow this feels different. 

His hands are both firm and gentle, as he helps Napoleon to lift his torso from the mattress. Napoleon can’t really stop the gasp of pain from escaping his lips. Both the blanket and the two pillows end up piled behind his back. When Waverly slowly lowers him down against them, he still doesn’t quite sit upright, but the new position seems to put a little less pressure on his ribs. Waverly hums and steps back immediately, examining his work.

“Excuse me for one minute please.”

When Waverly returns, he carries two lumps wrapped in towels. Probably ice, Napoleon knows this, his ribs were broken and bruised before. He doesn’t protest as Waverly places the ice on both his sides and pulls his blanket over them.

A nurse enters with a syringe in her hand just a moment after Waverly is done. She smiles at Napoleon while she walks over to his bed, as if a simple needle would spook him. “This is just a light sedative to help you sleep, nothing to worry about.” Napoleon doesn’t really have the strength to protest, so he nods. Her hands are soft on his arm, as she empties it into his veins. She gently pats his arm as she withdraws. 

Waverly escorts her to the door and again closes it behind her.

The curtains are drawn, dimming the light coming through the windows. He can’t fight his eyes from drifting shut, although Waverly didn’t even leave the room yet. The ice on his chest numbs the echoes of pain his medication couldn’t reach. It really is cold, but comfortable. Absently he hears the man’s steps, then a soft scraping sound and a faint creak. The steps stop. Napoleon blinks his eyes open to see the man sitting down on the plastic chair in the corner of the room. It doesn’t look comfortable. 

“I’ve been to your loft Mr. Solo. I apologize for not waiting for an invitation, but I compliment you on your interior design.”

Napoleon closes his eyes again, the edges of his mind getting fuzzy. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“This was where you three stayed after leaving the hotel, wasn’t it? Quite close quarters.”

“Wasn’t a problem.”

To be exact, it wasn’t just not a problem, it was nice. It was nice to have them around, waiting up for him to come home, eating the food he cooks, making breakfast for him although they said they wouldn’t. How did everything become a mess so fast?

Waverly’s voice is soft, barely disrupting the sleepiness trying to take over. 

“You should have called in after the first letter, definitely after you left the hotel. Why didn’t you?”

Isn’t that just the question. Napoleon exhales slowly. He’s not sure if Waverly can even understand him, because everything comes out mumbled.

“We had to complete the mission.” 

He almost laughs. He sounds exactly like Illya.

“I could have sent another team.”

“We have never failed.”

Waverly hums. 

“Did you ever fail a mission before joining U.N.C.L.E. Mr. Solo?”

“No.”

Rome doesn’t count. That was a draw. And he had the disc before destroying it.

“Why?”

That’s an odd question. Napoleon frowns a little, not opening his eyes. 

“Not an option.”

Waverly hums again in response. It’s a nice sound, deep and soothing. Napoleon can feel himself drift further off. 

He’s mostly asleep, when he hears Waverly again. 

“Did Avery rape you?”

Napoleon frowns. He already said that. 

“No.”

Another hum.

“Did you want it?”

“No.” 

A short silence after that, before he hears the faint creaking of the chair being shoved back. It’s not enough to make him open his eyes again. 

“I’ll let you rest now, Mr. Solo.” 

Waverly’s footsteps cross the room, a short sliver of light, as he opens the door. He might have said something else, but Napoleon has already drifted off. 

The nightmares change. There is no Avery, no current running through his body, no burning pain. 

Instead he watches as Illya and Gaby are growing wings. Illya’s are light with a load of dark dots, Gaby’s are covered in colorful patterns. They look strong and beautiful. Even when they fly away without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussion of rape and dubious consent, consent issues in general


	18. Chapter 18

Gaby doesn’t try to talk to Illya after Waverly threw them out. That’s fine, because Illya doesn’t seem interested in talking either. She doesn’t know what to think, she’s angry and she’s tired of it. Everything is out of control and she can’t go on like this.

The car is where she left it, directly in front of the building. She slides in behind the wheel and waits for Illya to join her. The place Waverly picked for them is back in the town, one inconspicuous apartment above a café. It’s easy to find. Their stuff from Solo’s loft is supposed to be already there. After she parks the car, she gives Illya one of the keys. He takes it wordlessly and gets out. Gaby stays behind the wheel for a few moments longer, before cutting the engine.

She catches up to Illya on the front door. The apartment assigned to them is on the second floor. If Illya’s wound acted up on the staircase, he doesn’t show it. 

The apartment is rather spacious, a lot more than the loft, but the second she sets a foot in it, she feels trapped. 

There are three bedrooms, one living room, one kitchen, one bathroom. Their luggage is piled in the doorway of the living room. She is quick to grab a bag with what looks like mostly her stuff and disappears into one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind her. The room is sparse, but not unwelcoming. She lets herself fall on the generously large bed head first. She doesn’t remember the last time when she really slept. The last two days at Waverly’s side have been too busy to let her rest. Still she knows sleep will be difficult. 

She turns to her back to stare at the ceiling and listens to Illya quietly moving through the apartment. She imagines him unpacking some necessities, but leaving the majority of his possessions in his bag. This is not like the loft. This is not a home. It’s not long before the front door opens and shuts again, after that, silence.

Now alone in the apartment Gaby gets up to leave her room again. It doesn’t take long for her to sort through their luggage, in case there is still something left of hers in other bags. She goes to inspect the other rooms a little more closely. The fridge is full, but she can’t work up the energy to make herself something to eat. Instead she goes back into her room and draws the curtains shut. She lies down on her bed to let herself drift away. It doesn’t work.

***

There’s a strange routine they fall into.

Illya leaves early in the morning, returning after sundown only to disappear again in his room. Gaby turns her own room into a makeshift workshop. Gear, tools and spares are scattered on every available surface. The few times she falls asleep, she just passes out where she is. She can never remember her dreams, but she always wakes up with the feeling of dread. If she doesn’t tinker, she roams through the apartment. She sees Illya fewer times than one would think of people living together, and when she does, they barely exchange a word. 

Gaby both wants him to talk to her and to avoid that. She wants to hear what exactly happened at Avery’s mansion, but her stomach twists at the mere thought of hearing more. With the little sleep she gets, there is a lot time on her hands to think, to wonder. 

On some nights she wants to slip into Illya’s bed and ask for forgiveness and just to let her sleep next to him, but that’s not going to happen. She is sorry for how everything turned out, but she’s not going to take all the blame. Still she misses him, the way it was between them. And she misses Solo, although his being here would only add to the tension. 

She’s right. 

Solo joins them after two and a half weeks, wearing one of his suits, a cast on his left hand and a black leather glove on the other. It only takes one short, wordless encounter between him and Illya in the hall for both of them to practically flee the apartment. 

The cast gets replaced by a second glove after another week. Nothing else changes.

Gaby stays mostly in her room, disassembling anything she can get her hands on. Illya is gone the whole day. Solo is gone the whole night and stays holed up in his room the rest of the time. When Solo comes home in the morning, always smelling of a different perfume, Illya has already left at the peak of dawn. Gaby doesn’t know who is avoiding whom. Waverly calls them every few days and Gaby answers the ringing every time. When he asks her about Illya and Solo, there is little to tell. 

To think back about the fight they had means thinking about Avery and how he died, and she refuses to give that bastard more time of her day as he takes already. She sees him every time she hears Napoleon coming home, instantly taking a shower and emerging from the bathroom with his gloves back on. She sees him, when Illya leaves at dawn with his running shoes and returns only hours later, completely exhausted, sometimes with a new patch of blood staining his shirt where he was shot. She sees him every time she holds something sharp or something metal and sometimes without any prompting at all. 

She doesn’t regret killing Avery and this is what worries her. She ended a life and she doesn’t feel remorse. In fact she doesn’t really feel anything. Maybe she’s just a cold blooded murderer and she just didn’t know until now, which scares her more than the prospect of killing again.

Waverly gave her a number for when she feels like she needs someone to talk to, who is not on anyone’s side. The piece of paper where she wrote down the digits sits on her bedside table. She doesn’t call.

***

The dream is gone again when she opens her eyes, but she can still feel the terror clawing at her. She sits up abruptly, jostling the tools and bits of tech spread over her bed. She turns on the small lamp at her bedside table to look at the clock. Almost five in the morning. That makes about three hours of sleep this time. She doesn’t quite know whether to laugh or cry at that. What she does know is that her stupid body won’t let her get any more rest beyond this. She’s still fully dressed, so she doesn’t bother to change anything about her appearance as she walks up to the door and silently opens it.

It’s dark in the apartment, just the streetlights coming in through the windows illuminate the place. Gaby settles down in one of the armchairs by the window and clicks on the light on the small table beside her.

Taking a deep breath she studies the small living room, trying to clear her head. Making coffee is probably not the wisest decision in the middle of the night, but the prospect of something hot to drink is rather appealing right now. She stays sitting there for a while, weighing the pros and cons of caffeine at five o’clock, when she hears something at the door.

A couple of seconds later the sound is there again. Metal against metal at their front door. Someone is trying to get in.

Silently she stands up and moves out to the hall, just in time to see Illya coming out of his room, a gun already in his hand. 

The sounds coming from the door seem oddly loud. Picking a lock usually doesn’t make so much noise. They wait for the attacker to come in, as the scratching turns to something sliding in and the pins of the lock clicking in unison. Illya raises his gun, as the door swings open, the confused frown on his face matching hers. 

The light from the staircase floods the small hallway and blinds them for a second. The silhouette in the doorway is definitely male and definitely familiar.

Illya’s finger slips away from the trigger instantly.

“Solo?” 

An even more familiar voice. 

“Who else were you expecting?” 

Gaby hits the light switch. 

Solo looks like a mess, his clothes and hair askew. There’s an odd shine in his eyes, one of his fake smiles plastered on his face. 

His eyes fall on the gun in Illya’s hand and he huffs out a laugh. It sounds wrong. “It’s like Rome all over again, isn’t it?”

He rummages in his coat, his motions jerky and uncoordinated, until he finds what he’s been looking for. He doesn’t exactly slam his hand on the sideboard next to him, but it’s close.

“Here’s your stupid watch.” 

Both Gaby and Illya stare at him, then at his hand revealing the familiar clock face. Illya doesn’t rush to get it, instead he stays glued to his spot. His voice is rough from sleep or from something else, Gaby can’t quite tell.

“How did you get it?”

Solo huffs and shrugs off his coat. 

“Stole it from the evidence locker. It’s not like they can convict Avery of anything now.”

He walks past Gaby with his coat in his hands. His usual cologne trails behind him, as does the smell of alcohol. She glances at Illya, his frown back on his face. He smells it, too. 

They watch Solo hang up his coat, only to see him wince as he lifts his arm over his head. The coat slips from his fingers and falls to the floor. Solo glances at it shortly, only to leave it lying there. As he walks through the open door towards the living room, he sways and knocks his shoulder against the doorframe. 

Gaby follows Solo quietly and leans against the wall across from him as he sinks down on the couch with a silent groan. 

He’s drunk. It would be funny if she hadn’t seen him empty most of a bottle of liquor only to stand up and act like there was only water in his glass.

Movement in the corner of her eyes makes her look up. Illya stands in the doorway, his watch back on his wrist. Solo’s coat is draped over his arm as he holds up a small bottle with a white label and cap.

She doesn’t have to read the label to know that they are Solo’s prescribed painkillers. 

Reckless and dangerous. Gaby can feel anger well up in her again, just as it did in the hospital. She swallows it down. It didn’t help then, it won’t help now. Instead she looks at Illya, who still hovers in the doorway, then at Solo, who looks exhausted facing them.

“How much did you drink?”

“Don’t know.” 

Solo’s words now come out slurred. 

He sighs heavily. 

“It’s not like we talk, so leave me alone.”

The words sting, mostly because they’re true. She can see it on Illya’s face as well. 

“That doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

And despite how he acts sometimes, she knows he cares, too. 

Solo snorts and looks away. 

He looks odd as he sits on the couch, his limps splayed careless in front of him. Even in the hospital he looked more put together than this. He runs his hand through his hair again, messing it up even more, before letting his head fall back on the backrest behind him.

His voice is almost too soft to be heard.

“My ribs still hurt.”

In a heartbeat, Illya enters the room. Gaby can just see how careful he is as he sits down next to him to hook Solo’s arm over his shoulder, the other one wrapping around Solo’s torso, low enough not to put pressure on the ribcage.

Solo still winces as they stand up together. 

She goes ahead to open Solo’s bedroom door. Illya almost drags Solo behind him, whose legs don’t seem to be co-operating with him. Gaby has a flashback to the night when they brought Illya back to the loft. She hopes that this night will have different consequences. Illya sits him down on the edge of the bed and Solo instantly flops backwards. The bed is almost not broad enough for his head to stay on the mattress. For a second both Illya and Gaby stand there looking at him. Illya is the first to react and nudges Solo’s foot with his. 

“You will regret it tomorrow if you sleep in your suit, Cowboy.”

Gaby thinks all of them startle a little at the easy way the nickname rolls off Illya’s tongue, but he doesn’t correct himself. Solo makes a sound, but doesn’t sit up, so Illya nudges him again, a little more insistent. 

Solo groans and turns his head from one side to the other. “Don’t care.”

Illya huffs. He glances at Gaby shortly, before bending down to remove Solo’s shoes. 

Solo huffs out a laugh. “Don’t start what you don’t want to finish, Peril.” 

Illya ignores him and glances back at Gaby while undoing the shoe laces. “Would you get some ice?”

Gaby stays for a few more seconds in the doorway before turning around to go to their fridge. There’s no ice in there, but a few bags of frozen vegetables. She takes them anyway. 

By the time she returns, Illya has Solo down to his dress shirt and slacks and maneuvered him to lie down in the middle of his bed. He left the gloves on. 

Gaby approaches with the frozen bags. Solo glances at her, but doesn’t react as she hands them to Illya. He lets out something almost too close to a whine as the cold touches his sides. Illya is quick to pull up the blanket up to his chin.

With nothing else to do, Gaby walks around the bed and sits down. After a quick glance at Illya, he does the same across from her, leaving Solo lying in the middle of them. The bed is barely large enough, leaving only a few inches between them and Solo each.

For a few moments everything is silent. The murmur escaping Solo’s lips is almost unintelligible, muffled by the pillow and jumbled from his tongue stumbling over the syllables. 

“I’m fine, you don’t have to stay.”

Gaby reaches up to push back a wayward strand of hair. “We don’t mind.”

Another stretch of silence. Gaby thinks Solo dozed off, when he starts again. 

“I’m not a victim.”

Gaby and Illya share a glance. They both know Solo well enough to understand what he’s referring to. Gaby can read it off Solo’s tone, off Illya’s face. It is at this moment when she realizes how well she got to know them. They don’t feel like people she simply works with, they feel different.

She finds Solo’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

“You don’t have to be a victim to hurt.”

There’s a quiet hum, then Solo shifts. It’s not much, he lies almost exactly like before, only his shoulder now brushes Illya and his other arm leans against her. 

Illya stays sitting where he is, so does Gaby. 

She watches Solo’s features relax as he drifts deeper and deeper asleep until his breathing evens out. And no matter what she tried to convince herself of in the last weeks, she doesn’t want to leave. She shares a look with Illya over Solo’s sleeping form. She can tell Illya knows this too. 

Something shifts within Gaby, something that has been askew for a long time. 

Her eyes drift to Illya’s watch, finally back at its rightful place. His fingers trace the face of it in slow circles. She knows this gesture. The tapping is to stave off the anger, the circles are meant for comfort. 

Illya’s voice is barely a whisper.

“In Iceland- ” He stops abruptly. Gaby looks up from his fingers with widened eyes. Illya doesn’t meet her gaze, his shoulders are hunched, but after a few moments of silence, he opens his mouth again.

“In Iceland, Cowboy and me stayed in a cottage outside a village two hours away from Akureyri. One night heating went out, so we shared bed. I-” 

Gaby sees how Illya’s fingers start to tremble. “I had a dream. I woke up when Cowboy threw me to the floor. I almost choked him to death in my sleep.”

The sound of Solo’s breath fills the silence between them. Illya waits for her to recoil, to get scared. It’s obvious in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. She waits for a few moments. When Illya doesn’t continue, she reaches over Solo to place her hand on his. As expected, his fingers are ice cold, but she doesn’t draw back.

“Is that why at first you slept on the floor in the loft?” 

Illya’s fingers twitch under hers.

Gaby hums softly. “It’s hard to miss a six foot five Russian lying between you and the bathroom, when you need to get up in the night.”

Illya is still not looking at her. There’s a shadow of anguish on his face. Gaby knows this isn’t the end of it, but she leaves her hand firmly where it is, slowly warming Illya’s under hers.

“I dreamt about Mikhail.”

Again that name. Gaby instinctively tightens her hold on Illya’s hand. She spent so much time wondering, pressing for an answer, but now it doesn’t seem worth the pain it caused. She wished she could have understood that earlier.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Slowly Illya lifts his head. His eyes flash icy blue in the dim light.

“I want to.”

Gaby nods, unable to say anything else.

Illya swallows thickly. 

“He was one of my father’s friends. After my father was taken away, he came to the dinners my mother hosted.”

Gaby knows enough about those dinners, about what happened there. It’s not hard to figure it out. 

Illya looks down to his lap, shortly glancing at their hands. “I wasn’t allowed there, but Mikhail came to find me when my mother was occupied.”

There’s a pit forming in Gaby’s stomach. The fingers under her palm slowly ball into a fist, but she refuses to let go. When he looks back at her again, his eyes are glistening. 

“He hurt me. There is-” He clears his throat. “There is still a scar on my leg. One of his rings had a sharp edge.”

The silence is heavy between them. He clears his throat again.

“When my mother found out, she shot him on our doorstep. They sent her away like my father, that was when I was put into training camp.”

Gaby wants to rage and cry at the same time. There’s so much bubbling up in her, so many words on her tongue, but this is not about her. She knows Illya waits for her to say something. Still, what is there to say. She knows Illya well enough that he doesn’t want pity and it’s not pity what Gaby feels. 

“Your mother was a very brave woman. I’m sorry you lost her because she was protecting you, but I’m not sorry that she did.”

There’s a lot more that she wants to say, that she’s honored for him to trust her, that she’s sorry for pressing the matter when she had no right, that she doesn’t think anything different of him, but the tentative smile she gets from Illya is enough.

“Thank you. She was.”

They sit by their partner for hours until they see the first rays of sunlight on the horizon. It’s Gaby who moves first to stand up, but Illya follows her immediately. Gaby waits for him at the door and closes it after both of them walked out. On a whim she leaves a small gap open. She takes a last peek through it, but Solo is still sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling in an even pattern.

When she turns around, she almost collides with Illya’s chest. She stumbles half a step back and looks up to him. A small smile is back on his face which she can’t help but return. It’s still careful on both of their sides, but it’s a start.

“Sleep well, Illya.”

“You, too.”

They stay standing there, looking at each other for another few moments, before simultaneously turning to their bedrooms. As Gaby glances over her shoulder for a final time, she finds Illya doing the same.

***

She wakes up not to her heart racing, but to the smell of breakfast. The daylight falling through the shades of her window is bright. Her clock confirms her suspicion that it’s already past noon. She still feels sleepy, but curiosity makes her get up anyway.

When she steps out of her room, she sees that the door to the kitchen is open. The delicious smell is now more prominent, coffee and pancakes. Hesitating only for a moment, she crosses the hallway and enters the kitchen. 

Solo is standing in front of the stove with his back to her, one of his aprons thrown over the wrinkled dress shirt and suit pants, the same he wore last night. There’s a huge stack of pancakes piled up on a plate to his right. Next to the pancakes is a pot full of coffee and his gloves. 

She raps her knuckles on the doorframe. Solo’s arms twitch once before he turns and looks over his shoulder. His smile is somewhat careful, but not faked.

“Good morning, Gaby.”

“Morning.”

They just look at each other for a few moments, before Solo turns to the stove again. 

“I’m making pancakes for breakfast.”

That much was obvious, but Gaby doesn’t comment on it.

He glances at her shortly.

“If it’s not too late.”

She can see that he’s trying to put them back together again, to where they were before this mess started. Maybe that’s not possible, but she is not going to let Solo try alone. 

“It’s not.”

She casually wanders into the kitchen to look over his shoulder. There’s batter for maybe two more pancakes, one still sizzling in the pan before him. She can see his shoulders tense slightly, as she looks further. 

His hands are covered in rosy patches of new skin, other parts reddish and raised. She takes a step back again.

“Looks delicious. Would you like me to set the table?”

Solo’s shoulders relax as he exhales. “Yes, thank you.”

Gaby has to go through almost all the cupboards before she manages to find everything. She carries it all over to the table in the corner of the kitchen and lines it up. It’s not much space, but the table is larger than the one in the loft and at least they have three chairs. 

Which makes her think of another thing still missing. 

“I’ll get Illya.”

She can hear Solo hum, before she is out of the kitchen. Her knock on Illya’s door isn’t very loud, but she hears Illya moving not a second later. When he opens the door, he’s still squinting at the brightness of the room.

“Breakfast is ready. Are you coming?”

Illya blinks at her in surprise, but follows her into the kitchen with a nod. 

They come in just in time to see Solo flip the last pancake onto the pile. His gloves are back on. Gaby tries not to be too disappointed, as she sits down with Illya.

Solo places the stack of pancakes in the middle of the table and joins them.

Illya’s head is lowered, but he glances at Solo through his lashes. 

“Thank you.”

Solo shrugs. “I think I have something to make up for after last night.”

For a few moments they just sit there awkwardly, until Gaby takes the first pancake and places it on her plate. They don’t really talk while they eat, but the silence is not as uncomfortable as Gaby feared. There’s still a lot of words left unspoken between them and she doubts they can resolve everything in an instant. This will take time, but she knows where to start.

She stops eating halfway through her last pancake.

“I don’t want out of the team.”

Both Illya and Solo look up from their breakfast. Gaby swallows once. 

“I want to stay with you, but I can’t watch you getting hurt and then trying to hide it from me. I don’t need to know everything, but I’m neither stupid nor blind and I care about you.” 

She looks at Illya and Solo one at a time. “Both of you. I hate to see you hurt, but I can deal with that. What I can’t deal with is you shutting me out.”

There is something twisting in her stomach, but she ignores it. 

“So as I said, I don’t need to know everything, but don’t lie to me. And I’m sorry.”

Illya’s face is still carefully blank, but she can see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. She can understand him too well. She is hopeful too. 

Solo looks at both of them in turn, apprehension in his eyes, but not dismissal. To her surprise he lets his fork fall on the table and leans back in his chair.

“Alright, I’ll start.” He throws a glance in Illya’s direction. “But before that I want to remind you that I recently had my ribs broken and would like to avoid doing that again.”

Gaby didn’t exactly expect this reaction, but she did hope for it. It’s time they talk. 

Out of the corner of her eyes, she can see Illya’s eyes narrow.

Solo takes a sip of his coffee, before looking at Illya.

“I had your watch since I was out of the hospital. I didn’t want you to get it back once Waverly sees and recognizes it.”

Illya sets down his cutlery as well, but other than a twitch in his hands he seems calm. 

“Why?”

Solo’s gaze flicks down for a second, before he looks into Illya’s eyes again.

“I was angry.”

Still he carried the watch around and didn’t dispose of it, Gaby realizes, but she doesn’t interrupt. 

“I was angry, because maybe you were right.”

He huffs out a laugh, but there is no hint of humor in it.

“I met someone last night. It was like any other time before. We talked, it was nice, I got an unmistakable invitation. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.”

He laughs again, the sound somehow hurts. “Embarrassing really.”

“No, is not.”

Illya looks at him fiercely, but not unkindly. “Do not be ashamed, if it’s not your fault.”

For a moment Gaby sees Solo’s eyes widen as if in recognition, then not so inconspicuously glances in Gaby’s direction. 

“It is fine, I told her.”

Solo’s surprise shows for just the blink of an eye before it gives way to one of his real smiles. “Well, good for you, Peril.”

Illya’s smile in return has lost its carefulness from the last night. Seeing them like that eases something in Gaby’s chest.

They finish the last bits of the pancakes. Just as they did in the loft, Gaby and Illya handle cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes, leaving Solo sitting at the table to finish the last coffee.

After stacking everything away they are about to disperse apart again, Illya and Solo heading back to their own rooms, when she stops them by pointedly clearing her throat.

“Do you mind if I set up shop in the living room?”

A headshake from both Solo and Illya. 

She gives them a wink. “Alright, thank you.”

Both men disappear into their rooms, but Gaby notices that neither of them close their door all the way. She smiles and goes to her room to collect her newest project from all the clutter she left lying around in her sleepless nights. 

Just as she organized everything to her liking, Illya appears in the doorway, just outside as if he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. “What are you working on?”

Gab huffs. “I’m not sure yet.”

Illya raises his eyebrows at her, but says nothing. She tilts her head to him slightly.

“Would you like to take a look?”

Illya nods and finally enters the room. He stops right next to her, bowing a little over the table. She watches him, as his gaze roams over the table, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

“Communicator?”

Gaby looks a little longer before she answers. 

“Yes, but smaller than what we have and less conspicuous. Maybe even some sort of casing so that it won’t be detectable.”

Illya hums. “What range?” 

“As far as I can make it work.”

Her eyes fall on Illya’s hands. He carries a book which she didn’t notice before. She smiles as she sees the title. 

“Dr. No still?”

Illya looks down at the book in his hand, his smile a little strained. “I have not felt like reading for some time.”

He must have left off the day before they went to Avery’s club. Gaby tilts her head towards the couch.

“Make yourself comfortable then.”

Illya looks shortly at her, then walks over to the couch. She can hear the sound of fabric against fabric as he sits down.

They fall into comfortable silence, only interrupted by the faint sounds of Solo moving around in his room, taking a shower and pottering around some more. 

Gaby is almost finished with her handiwork, when Solo comes to lean against the doorframe. His hair is still damp and curly. He’s not wearing a suit, but one of the few sweaters he always buries deep down in his cases and the dark pants he wears for breaking in. His feet are bare, but not his hands. As impressive as Solo’s usual style is, Gaby likes this look on him better, because nobody else gets to see him like this. 

Gaby catches herself before it counts as staring and casually takes one of her small screwdrivers to check the stability of her work, which she already did twice.

“Any idea how to camouflage a pocket-sized communicator, Solo?”

Illya looks up from his book. From the way his eyes crinkle slightly, she knows he’s not unaffected by Solo either. 

Solo hums shortly in thought.

“You could make it a pack of cigarettes.”

A snort from Illya.

“Talking into a pack of cigarettes, not inconspicuous at all, Cowboy.”

Solo raises his eyebrows at him. “But cyanide cigarettes are so much better.”

Illya frowns at him. “Cyanide cigarettes?”

“The book in your hand, Dr. No isn’t it?”

“No cyanide cigarettes in the book.”

Solo shrugs. “There were some in the film.”

Gaby could practically smell Illya’s indignation that Solo knows the film, but not the novel it was based on, and she suddenly has the urge to laugh. It’s such an ordinary thing for them to bicker over some ridiculous detail and it’s good.

They seem to notice too, for both of them stop in their tracks. Both look at each other, having some silent conversation. It ends, when Solo’s eyes drop away to the small table next to the couch. 

“What is that Peril?”

Curiously Gaby follows his gaze. There’s something lying on the table, a photograph of some sort, but Gaby can’t see what’s in it from her angle.

Illya’s free hand jerks once, as if he wanted to grab the photograph but then decided against it. He clears his throat and pointedly looks back at the pages of his book.

“My bookmark.”

Solo slowly walks over to it and picks it up. When he sees it, his eyes widen for a moment, before turning to Illya. 

“Where did you get this?”

Illya’s eyes stay firmly on the page in front of him. 

“I took it myself.”

Gaby gets up from the table and walks over to Solo. He hands the photograph over to her.

It’s a photograph of them, Gaby and Solo to be precise, from Istanbul. And Illya kept it all these months, probably looking at it almost daily. 

Gaby looks up to Illya, who still makes a show of reading. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Illya glances over the edge of the book at her. 

“But I’d like it better, if you were in it, too.”

The sentence hovers in the air between them, no one agreeing or disagreeing. Illya breaks the spell with a huff. “We’re spies, there can’t be photographs of us together.” 

It’s sad that he’s right. The only thing that saved the photo from being destroyed is probably that Gaby is not really recognizable. Still she stands by what she said. 

Carefully she puts it back down on the table. Solo stays where he is, looking at Illya again.

“You know, if you get tired of reading, your watch is not the only thing I took from evidence.”

Illya lets the book sink to his lap, surprise on his face. Solo tips his head over his shoulder.

“Your chess set is in my room.”

Illya’s eyes narrow. “How did you do that?”

Solo just winks at him. “Do you really want to know?”

Gaby can barely hold in a chuckle at Illya’s resigned headshake. Still, he gets up from the couch to follow Solo out. 

They don’t return to the living room after that. Gaby uses the time to breathe a little, letting everything go through her head again. She can’t let the few kindnesses and ordinary small things fool herself. All this is familiar, but still fragile. They’ve all been hurt and that won’t get better overnight. Still, having Illya and Solo closer to her again feels right in a way she can’t explain. Now that they left the room, she wishes them back just for them to be there. She knows it’s childish, but that doesn’t change the fact that her fingers fly even faster over the wires and spares at the prospect of following them. 

It still takes some time for her to finish the communicator prototype and as odd as it sounds, to disguise it as a pack of cigarettes doesn’t seem like a bad idea. She plans to give it a try, but for today she is done. Packing up her equipment, she does it a little more neatly than in the last few weeks. Finding quite a few stray pieces in her room she puts all of it away. By the time she leaves her room, it’s already dark outside.

Solo and Illya haven’t emerged again, the door to Solo’s room standing open. 

She finds them sitting on Solo’s bed with the chess set between them. Both stare down at the pieces deep in thought, although it looks like Illya has already won. More than half of the white pieces are lined up in front of Illya, Solo having captured only a few pawns and a knight.

Gaby lets them be and goes to the kitchen to prepare a small dinner for them. She’s never been interested in cooking, so they will have to be content with her assembling some sandwiches. She makes six of them, two for each, and carries them out on three plates. She’s back right in time to see Illya win.

She climbs on the bed as well, behind the chessboard, to have an unobstructed view. They eat in comfortable silence and to both Gaby’s and Illya’s surprise, Solo agrees to a rematch. Gaby knows he likes chess not much better than her, which is just short of not at all, and he stands no chance of winning. It’s kind of sweet, that he still wants to play on. 

Gaby evens the odds a little by taking over Illya’s side every three turns and most likely sabotaging his strategy. The longer the game lasts, the lower she sinks on the bed, until she almost nods off between her moves. She doesn’t know how late it is, but she lost enough sleep over the last few weeks. She’s a little surprised but relieved that sleep is coming so easily right now. She fights to keep her eyes open as she contemplates just to annex Solo’s bed and go to sleep where she lies or to risk losing her sleepiness by getting up. 

She only noticed she’s already more asleep than awake, when Solo calling her name makes her eyes snap open again. The game in front of her is decided and she can’t even remember when she dozed off. 

“No insomnia for you today, Gaby?”

She huffs out a laugh, as she struggles to sit up. “I told you, it’s not too bad when the two of you are not lying somewhere in a ditch bleeding out.”

Solo glances down at his hands and clears his throat.

“I know you didn’t leave last night until the sun went up. We could stay with you.” The second the words leave his mouth he clamps his mouth shut. Illya and Gaby exchange glances. It should be awkward, but then again, it’s not like they had not slept together in the weeks before. And to be honest, Gaby misses that just as much as she misses both of them.

“No.” Illya’s voice is firm with no room for arguing. Gaby gets a glimpse of the disappointment on Solo’s face before he covers it up. Illya’s hand finds Solo’s shoulder before the other man can say anything. 

“My room. I have the biggest bed. We shared before.”

Illya doesn’t let go of Solo as they both stand up from the bed and proceed to walk over to Illya’s room. Gaby trails behind them, a small grin on her face as she can see the tips of Illya’s ears redden slightly. She uses the opportunity to slip into the bathroom first. When she comes back, Illya already changed into his sleeping clothes. Illya takes the next turn, leaving her with Solo alone in his room, something he would have never done just months ago.

Illya’s room is always tidy to the point it doesn’t seem lived in. As she suspected, the shelves are bare and his bags are still unpacked.

Solo sits at the foot of Illya’s bed, looking around casually as well, but Gaby can feel he just waits for her to settle. She does him the favor and sits down next to him, but before he can say anything, she gently takes one of his gloved hands in hers. Even through the leather they radiate warmth, so different from Illya’s but just as nice. His fingers twitch in hers, but he doesn’t withdraw them. 

“You know you don’t have to hide this from us.”

It’s easier said than done, but she hopes they can slowly get there. 

His fingers flex once. “I know.”

He lets her play with his hand for a little more, before taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for lying to you about going to Avery.”

She squeezes his fingers lightly. 

“I’m not angry anymore.”

“Well, I’m still sorry.”

She looks up from their hands and meets his eyes. They were nothing but sincere. Gaby nods, but doesn’t look away. Since she first noticed it, she has been fascinated by the brown fleck in his eye. She wonders what caused it, pure chance or if his parents had it as well. They never really talk about family, but she hopes they will someday. Her gaze slips down to his lips for a second.

A door opens and she hears footsteps in the hallway.

She didn’t even realize how close they were sitting until Illya appears in the doorway and sees them together. Gaby and Solo stay as they are, not moving.

Illya keeps looking at them, his hands begin to twitch at his side. “I can go.” 

Before Gaby has time to react, Solo already opened his mouth. 

“Stay.”

And suddenly this is not about just sleeping in the same bed. Maybe it never was. 

Gaby wordlessly extends a hands towards Illya.

Illya shifts his weight from one leg to the other as if he contemplates running, but he stays where he is. His hands clench to fists at his side, his head drops a little.

“I am not good at this.”

Next to her Solo gets on his feet. He slowly walks towards Illya, leaving him plenty of time to step away. Illya doesn’t move, looking at his partner through his lashes. Gaby doesn’t think he has any idea how vulnerable it makes him look. 

Solo stops directly in front of him with only a few inches to spare. His right hand slowly reaches up to Illya’s cheek and rests there.

“May I?”

For a few moments they just look at each other. Gaby fears that Illya might break away and leave, when he gives a tiny nod.

The first time their lips meet it’s just a fleeting brush. Both draw back after that. Illya looks down at his partner with surprise and slowly a tentative smile forms on his face. Gaby feels warmth spread inside her, as Solo mirrors his expression. The second time Illya meets him halfway and it’s all the sweeter for it. 

She will never understand how people could think this is wrong. 

It ends almost too soon, as Solo steps back with the familiar grin on his face.

“Behave yourselves while I wash up.”

Illya nods, still looking a bit awestruck. Gaby laughs a little, before sliding back onto the bed and holding out her hand to Illya again. This time he comes to her. 

She is already stretched out in the middle of the bed, when he sits down at her left side. Gaby turns to face him, as he stays sitting there in silence. It’s all confusing to say the least. It’s a risk and not only in consideration of their jobs. If anyone finds out it will doubtlessly be used against them. She won’t hold it against Illya, or Solo for that matter, if he decides to back out. 

“Do you want this?” 

Illya glances back at her, but stays silent. She props herself up on her arms to be at least a little closer to his eyelevel. 

“Having both me and Solo?”

Illya looks at her for another moment, before ducking his head a little. 

“I have not thought this is a possibility.”

Gaby grins a little. “Have you never imagined?”

The faint blush rising on Illya’s cheek is answer enough. Gaby doesn’t press for more. She isn’t cruel.

“So why shouldn’t it be possible?”

Illya glances away, shrugging.

“Is not how it is supposed to be.”

Gaby never gave much thought to the way things are supposed to be, but she knows this isn’t easy for Illya, who grew up with so little air to breathe. She sits up properly and reaches out to him. Illya doesn’t withdraw, as she kneels behind him and slips her arms around his neck. 

“Do you still want us?”

Illya’s yes is barely more than a whisper, but it is enough. 

He lets himself get pulled backwards until he’s fully on the mattress. After a little turning they end up on their sides, facing each other. There’s a small, hopeful smile on Illya’s face and Gaby knows she looks the same. 

“Cowboy needs more space.”

A gentle hand sneaks over her waist and curls around her. Gaby doesn’t protest as she’s turned around and drawn back until her back rests against Illya’s front. She can feel the tension in Illya’s body, still unsure if he’s allowed. Gaby covers his hand with hers like she did the last time. Illya slowly relaxes again. 

“He should sleep on his back. Better for healing.”

“Always the gentleman, Peril.” Both Gaby and Illya look up to see their partner leaning in the doorway, a grin on his face. He’s in his robe again, the pillows and blankets from his and Gaby’s rooms in his arms. Illya grumbles something in Russian, low enough only for Gaby to understand if she only knew the words. 

Solo hands them the pillows and blankets for them to arrange and goes to switch the lights off. 

There is just enough light left to make out his shape against the background as he walks back over to them. The mattress dips under his weight, as he lies down on his back next to Gaby, leaving still a polite distance between them. Which is not going to happen. Gaby reaches out to him and grabs the collar of his robe, tugging at it until Solo shuffles closer to them with a suspiciously relieved sigh. She doesn’t understand how her partners can be so intelligent and so dumb at the same time.

She only stops tugging when he’s close enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder. Her fingers release the robe to wander down his arm to his hand. The lack of skin reminds her sharply that he still wears the gloves. She decides not to say anything, when Illya suddenly shifts and a cold hand joins hers. Solo’s fingers stiffen at the touch. 

“Peril, please-“

“This is my fault.”

Solo exhales audibly. “Avery did this, not you.”

Illya doesn’t say anything else, but his guilt still hanging over him.

After a few moments of silence, Solo curses softly. His hand slips out under theirs. He raises it to his face and uses his teeth to slip off the glove. The light is too low to see much, but he holds his hand out to Illya. 

Carefully Illya closes his fingers around it. From what Gaby has seen earlier, the scars must be noticeable by touch. Illya still doesn’t say anything as he runs his thumb over the back of Solo’s hand. He sets it down again on the bed after, but instead of letting go, he holds their intertwined fingers against Gaby’s stomach. 

Gaby lays her hand on top of them, holding them in place.

“We made it through. We’re still together. That’s all that matters now.”

They still need time to heal. There will be scars, but they are not alone with them. 

Solo looks down at their joined hands and turns to his side. Gaby is about to push him gently back down, when his other hand reaches out to cup her jaw.

Her eyes fall shut automatically as he leans in. His lips are warm and softer than she imagined. The kiss is tender and so unlike anything she would have expected from Solo it makes her heart flutter in her chest. 

She doesn’t get the chance to protest when he draws back for another arm sliding under her head from behind her to turn her around. 

After such a long wait, Illya’s kiss is nothing but sweet relief. Her thoughts flee her all at once as she melts into it. It could have lasted an hour or just a moment, she can’t tell as they break apart.

They settle back down again, Gaby pressed between Illya’s chest and Solo’s side even closer than before. Their warmth radiates through her, making her forget all the pain, anger and fear of the last weeks. 

Her lips still tingle with the kisses she received, the impressions blurring into one feeling as she slowly drifts away.

She’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussion of rape and past child abuse, it’s implied that is was sexual.

**Author's Note:**

> ~The End~
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos/comments :)
> 
> Special thanks to my beta Ursa_Es and my friend Deviantaccumulation.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://deducitetemporacarmen.tumblr.com) :)


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